


Tout Ou Rien (All or Nothing)

by JadeRachelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Emotional Abuse, Family, M/M, Rehabilitation, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock, preslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeRachelle/pseuds/JadeRachelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.<br/>Sherlock is a mess, forced into rehabilitation by Mycroft where he meets a woman who will turn his life upside down.<br/>Introduced to her odd friend, James Moriarty, Sherlock is drawn into situations he had never thought he'd find himself in. In particular, a relationship that he never even imagined.<br/>When Mycroft gets wind of his behaviour he will do almost anything to keep his brother safe.<br/>But Jim will do more to keep Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I can hear the knocking on the door but it means nothing to me. I'm too far from it to get up and answer. Not physically, but mentally. In reality I'm still draped over the couch, probably fallen to the floor by now. But in there, in my head, I'm nowhere. Nowhere and yet still everywhere. I don't exist. I don't feel. I don't move. It is nothing but blissful tranquility.

Well, it was. The incessant pounding of a fist against wood is breaking through the veil, piercing the wall between reality and my Heaven. I choose to ignore the noise. The idea that another person is intruding means nothing to me. I am too far away, thoroughly enjoying the blank serenity of my mind. It has slowed, gone white. There is nothing finer. My thoughts do not race, my mind does not try to understand everything. I'm calm. I'm peaceful. I feel nothing, know nothing, see nothing... But the wall is cracking and the real world is forcing it's way in. I feel warm hands gripping me by the shoulders. My body. I'm not quite in there, still far away in my head. I must have fallen to the ground because they're tugging me.

A voice is shouting. It's familiar like a memory so firmly lodged into my brain that even this alternate mentality cannot shake it. But who is it? I hear it call my name. It's loud, panicked, angry. It's screaming at me. The tone doesn't match the memory of the voice.

**_Wake up! Sherlock! For gods sake_! **

Why can't I place it? It is so familiar...

_**Sherlock Holmes! Wake up or so help me god...** _

Ahh. I've got it. I'm coming back. It's bringing me back. That voice is shaking the vision of peace and tearing me back into reality. I feel a smile stretch over my lips as I become aware of my body once again. I try to speak but my voice is lost somewhere along the path from thought to action. It's my brother. My dear, insufferable, meddling brother. He's always spoiling my fun, always being the one with better morals, more money, a higher position. Well, he can yell and tug all he wants but I'm not moving. If he wants to drag me away from my perfect Heaven then he can try but I will not make it easy for him.

I hear a mumbled noise. It's closer than Mycroft's voice. I think it came from me. I have no idea what I've said nor do I really care.

I feel my brother's hands dragging me, a second pair joins him. There are more feminine, must be his P.A. assisting. Am I really struggling that much? Good on me. I hear the slamming of a door and I'm being carried down the stairs. I hear a shocked gasp from the distance. That'll be Mrs. Hudson. I wish she hadn't come out. She doesn't need to see one of her tenants like this. I feel cold air on my skin. I'm outside. There are loud noises; cars, people. I'm shaking as hands push at me, stuff my exposed body against what appears to be leather. The last thing I remember is letting loose a loud, hollow laugh as the white light turns to black and muffles my senses, dragging me down, down, down.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

I wake to silence. It's cold and my head is pounding. My mouth is dry and tastes awful. My stomach is churning and my legs are twitching against something. I try to reach up to push my hair off of my forehead but find I am restrained. Tied down, holding me against a hard mattress. The sheets are starched and stiff, cotton and basic. I can hear the faint beeping of a monitor and can smell cleaning products and sweat.

Oh bloody hell. He's brought me to a hospital. I try to raise my arms but I've been secured well. I can barely move. I must have given them grief.

"Don't move," a voice says from beside me. I open my eyes, blinking at the harsh unnatural light. Mycroft is standing against the off-white wall beside the medical equipment. He has a folder under his arm. It's always business with him, no matter what. He can't escape his work and brings it out everywhere.

I see an intravenous tube running clear liquid from a small bag down to my right hand, taped in place carefully. I clear my throat and relax into the hard bed, the pillowcase scratching at my neck.

"It's over, Sherlock."

Oh, this again? When will he learn? I wait in silence. What's the pitch this time? He can't make me go. He can only do as he has previously and ask me to comply. The answer is always the same though.  
No. Not a chance. Nope. Non. Not happening. Never.

"I'm having you sanctioned."

That's a new one.

"How did you swing that? You can't possibly have managed to get everything for that."  
If his proposal isn't airtight then I can still get out of this. I eye the folder under his arm as though daring him to produce evidence. He takes it out and opens it, showing me the pages inside but keeping it from my reach.

"Testimonials from your doctor, two therapists, myself and a friend in a very high place. You are to be involuntarily admitted to a rehabilitation clinic for a thirty day program," he turns to the back of the folder and reads, "you will undergo detoxing, group therapy, psychiatric evaluation and cognitive behaviour therapy. There will be daily reports sent to me by all staff so I can keep up with your progress."

I laugh at him. Even if he can manage to have me admitted, I will get out. Does he really think this will work? But he is my brother, he knows what I'm thinking. He gives me a grim smile, his eyes are cold and determined.

"You will be escorted there by a team of security. I am also issuing rotating guards to be placed around the facility. There will be no way out, Sherlock. This is happening whether you like it or not."


	2. Chapter 2

I'll not be going without a fight. I won't go peacefully or quietly. I will kick and scream and make Mycroft regret ever having those forms signed. He can shove his rehabilitation where the sun doesn't reach. I don't need it and I don't want it. I will go down fighting him. These security folk are quite strong though. They're from the government, picked up by my dear brother just specially for me. Since when did they teach the SIS grunts how to fight like this? Seems like the Queen has been watching too much world cinema judging by the way these government lumberjacks are putting up a fight.

They've got me down and now they're carrying me. In through the front doors that close before the next set open. I'm twisting and kicking, trying to get out of their hold. Mycroft will regret this. But they're keeping a good hold on me and I just can't break out of their grip.

"I thought rehab was voluntary?" I call out as they drag me through the last set of doors and into the foyer. A woman steps up beside me and I still, panting slightly as the muscles on either side of me stand me on my feet.  
"It is, love. But your brother, he's in a high place. If he says you have to stay here then we will do everything we can to keep you here. It's all for the best, really."

I glare at her and one of the men holding me twists my arm. I wince at the gesture. Perhaps it would be easier if I submitted to this. If I get through this I can get Mycroft off my back and go back to living without him stomping into my flat demanding I clean myself up. After all, I'm not paying for this. It's all coming from his account. Perhaps I can use this as a type of holiday. A little trip away from the city. Sure, withdrawals and detoxing and therapy sound like hell but is it really any worse than listening to Mycroft whine?

I slump, body relaxing with a sigh of defeat. The security's hands do not slip. I suppose they're waiting for me to try to run again.

"Relax boys," I say as I roll my eyes, "I'm done fighting. I'll go quietly."  
They share a look between them and the woman grins. It's sickening how happy she seems to be at the prospect of having an extra patient in the centre. Was this really her first choice for a career? Looking after addicts and scum, the low of low, the dependant and the abused? Did she really choose to do this? How disgusting.

I breath deeply and stand properly, the hands holding me finally relax. I look around at the foyer. Simple, elegant. I suppose Mycroft did have the foresight to send me to a place that seems relatively normal. Discreet I imagine. He can't have people knowing his little brother is a junkie, now can he? If I didn't know any better I'd say he's only doing this so I don't give our family a bad name.

I swallow my pride and force a half smile. If I can make it through this, perhaps Mycroft will stay out of my life. I wouldn't be a liability anymore. If I get clean, on his money and watch, then maybe he will leave me alone. Maybe he'll let me be independant finally. I feel the pained smile turn into a smirk as I look at the woman before me. Time to get started I suppose.

"So where's my room?"

 

 

\---------------------------------

 

 

The first night is Hell. They've got me going cold turkey with no methadone to ease out of the addiction. I've been given a room, it's spacious, delightful really. Trust Mycroft to go for a place so expensive and traditional. They sent me in with a bundle of clothes and essentials which are now stuffed into the small bedside drawers. I've been assigned a nurse for round the clock care but she can't actually do anything. I'm alone and it hurts.

It hasn't been long and already I'm suffering from withdrawal. I swear it's killing me. I've not left my room. I can't. I'm crippled by stomach cramps, bouts of sweating, nausea. It's Hell. I just wish they'd give me something, anything. Methadone, morphine, anything. But they won't even spare me a painkiller. I've been thrown into this and I'm hating it. 

I toss and turn, sweating and shivering all night with the nurse they sent in sitting uncomfortably in a chair beside the bed. How sadistic. A woman sitting and watching me writhe in pain as my stomach contracts and my limbs shake. She doesn't speak, she doesn't move, she just watches to make sure I don't do anything stupid. I beg and plead but she doesn't move. She's being paid far too well to let me get out of this.

I don't sleep at all that night and at 7am another nurse comes to relieve the one who has been made to endure my suffering along side me. She comes bearing a glass of water and introduces herself. I don't hear her name. I don't care. I just want the withdrawals to stop.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

They let me stay in my room the first full day there. I only leave to be escorted to the bathroom down the hall where I heave and spit. There's nothing in my stomach. Just acid, water and bile. I return to my room with my head spinning and my limbs aching. During the day toast, soup and water is pushed onto me. I consume it but can't keep it down for longer than a few hours. My stomach feels like it's full of snakes.

The second night I fall into a fitful sleep. I wake to a cold sweat and more cramps. I can't stay in bed due to the malaise that's taken hold of me. Everything is uncomfortable. No position helps. Laying makes me restless, sitting results in akathisia and pacing leaves my joints aching.

A doctor comes to see me in the morning. He sits me down despite the twitching in my legs and goes through all of the symptoms I will experience. He leaves when I speak over him giving out dictionary definitions of every symptom I am suffering from and why. He doesn't like being shown up I guess.

As lunch rolls around I am ushered, knees shaking and nose running, into the main building. The nurse sits me down at a table of about twenty people and pushes a plate of eggs and toast before me. My stomach is empty but I can't eat. I spend ten minutes staring at the plate before she snaps and demands I eat something. But she doesn't understand. I can barely swallow, let alone chew. Every part of me aches; my bones, my muscles, my stomach, my head. I can barely lift my arms to hold the fork.

I'm returned to my room and interviewed by a psychologist. He is pompous and overconfident. I shut him down by announcing that his wife is having an affair with his best friend. It's obvious really. If I can tell even in my uncomfortable position then it must be glaringly obvious to everyone else. I am left feeling a little proud of myself that even when in the grip of withdrawal I can still deduce.

I sleep slightly better than night but I wake fairly often and have to stretch and pace from the spasms and discomfort in my legs. The nurse worries her lip in frustration each time I get up to wander around the room. I don't feel at all sorry for her. It was her choice to take this position, she can deal with the negative circumstances with no sympathy from me.

The third day sees an improvement. I've moved on from the vomiting and cramps, the insomnia has gone back to the usual level I deal with every other day, the sweating has lightened, the aches are fading and my legs are barely twitching. I seem to have a severe case of rhinorrhea, not helped by excessive sneezing and watery eyes. I thought I was going through withdrawal, not having an allergic reaction? Then again, I could very well be allergic to boredom. That would explain it.

I'm dragged from my room at 7am and left to fend for myself at the breakfast table. I nibble at toast and drink three cups of tea. No one speaks to me. They're all grouped off, chatting and arguing while I sit quiet and alone observing them all. The loudest is a tiny brunette who appears to have been addicted to barbituates judging by her tremors and the way she whips her head from side to side as though she sees movement around her when there is none. Beside her is a man in his fifties, he's been drinking nonstop for twenty years and his son's demanded he be admitted after he burnt their house down in a drunken fit. Beside him is a scrawny boy no older than twenty, this one is going through methamphetamine withdrawal going by the way he is falling asleep at the table with tears in his eyes. Opposite him is a petite girl, around my age with red hair. This one is interesting. She shows no symptoms at all. I can't tell what she's here for. The rest, the rest of the patients are boring. You can read every addiction and reason on their faces without them having to say a thing. Boring.

As such, I stick to myself for the day. I'm kicked out of the educational lecture and meeting at 9 for correcting the man speaking. It's hardly my fault that he claims to be a professional but knows absolutely nothing. If one is going to lecture and teach those who have used and abused chemicals, you'd think they would know a thing or two about the substances before getting up to ramble on at the blank faces before him.

My first group meeting goes well by my standards. I say absolutely nothing, instead focusing on trying to stop myself from sneezing and vomiting.  
I skip lunch to throw up the tea I drank earlier and am late for the ridiculous Twelve Step meeting at 12. The rest of the day passes in a blur as I cramp again and sit restless, shaking and sick. It's not until I'm ushered to the dining room for dinner that I speak again.  
I'm sitting at the end of the table trying hard to eat the mess of what I assume is supposed to be lasagne when a voice sounds soft by my side.

"Budge up, new boy."

I turn slowly to look at the girl I saw earlier, her red hair messy and eyes bright with moisture. I still can't tell what she's here for. She's so composed, there are no shakes or tremors, no trackmarks, no burst blood vessels, nothing. She has no evidence on her. I move slightly, giving her room to sit beside me. I throw her a look of distaste and return my focus to the orange mess on my plate.

"So what's your vice?" She asks as she stabs at her own dinner with a fork.

"Diacetalmorphine." I replied blankly.

"That's smack, right?"

I nod and poke at the sad excuse for pasta as she shovels hers into her mouth with no finesse at all.

"I'm Alexandria. I saw you when you came in then you were gone for a few days so I figured the withdrawals were something fierce. Heroin is always the worst. I feel sorry for you. How are you holding up? Spoken to anyone?" She says it all in one breath. What an odd girl. 

"Fine. And no."

"What, not even Kristen?"

"Who's Kristen?" I ask. I don't know names. I don't care for names. I don't care for any of the people here.

Alexandria swallows her food and points her fork towards the brunette I had seen at breakfast.

"Oh, the ex-barbituate user with the abusive father. No, I've not spoken to anyone yet. Not even her."

She looks at me with a grin. She's impressed.

 

 

\------------------------------------

 

 

The next few days get easier. I still feel sick and shake but the cramps and vomiting leaves me. I start attending group meetings, I sit through the educational lectures quietly, I tell the psychologist and doctors what they want to hear and fall into the routine of the centre.

Wake up. Breakfast. Reflection. Education. Group meeting. Lunch. Twelve Steps. Group meeting. Education. Psychologist. Dinner. Free time. Doctor. Bed.

A week passes and I start to pick up. Withdrawal leaves and is replaced with regular annoyance at how tedious every day is, how boring the people are, how monotonous the schedule is. Alexandria starts to hang around me, sitting at my side for meals and giggling next to me during group therapy. She disappears during the evening during our time to relax. During our time spent chatting over meals I get to know about her.

Alexandria, Alex to friends, is a high school drop out though far from stupid. She grew up in the South with her mother and older brother, a happy family. She moved to London when she dropped out of school in the hopes of becoming an actor. However she found herself in debt, near homeless and addicted to numerous drugs. She swears she didn't resort to prostitution but I'm not sure I believe her. She hit the bottom and gave up on everything when she was picked up by a dealer who needed a runner. She accepted without hesitation. From there she worked numerous jobs, most of them underhanded until she fell into a position with a gentleman named James.

This James is the one who got her in here. He's paying for the whole thing out of his own pocket. She refuses to tell me why or even who he is in relation to her. I'd like to say I don't care but I am curious. She speaks of him in high regard, always positive things and never very revealing. I have no idea who he really is. I swear I'll find out one day, but for now it's just pleasant to have someone who isn't a complete idiot to speak to.


	3. Chapter 3

The symptoms fade and withdrawal ends but I'm still in Hell. A few faces have left, new ones have arrived and yet I speak to none besides Alex. Her chipper attitude and less than obtuse conversation are the best thing here. We take to each other well enough and spend our group sessions chatting in undertones together. We talk about everything except our addictions, we reserve that topic for the dull interviews we're subjected to with doctors and professionals. It's not a fun subject and so we avoid mention of it. Everything else is all right to discuss. From past experiences to family, childhood memories to emotional distress. It's strange but oddly comforting to discuss such topics with someone who I know I'll never see again. 

We grow quite close, relaxing together, making fun of the staff and patients, sneaking out for cigarettes during leisure time in the evening and during meal times. I may even go so far as to say she's almost, very nearly, but not quite, a friend.

We're sitting at the table for breakfast on the Thursday of my second week when I try to question her. She's not been helpful at all, I swear she's being purposely mysterious. I just want to know who this James is, what he does, why he paid for this, who he is to her. But she refuses to speak about him unless it's simple complimentary anecdotes or incredibly bland information.

"Look, just tell me who he is." I say as I stir milk into my tea. She shakes her head with a smile and mimes locking her mouth with a key. She can be such a child sometimes.

"What does he do?"

"Nope. Not telling."

"But why not?"

"Look here, when you get out of here come and see me. I'll introduce you two and you'll see. You'll love him." She says as she chews on her toast, slathered in Marmite. She only has a few days left in the centre but I have over a week. I raise an eyebrow at her sceptically.

"I'll love him? Are you forgetting who you're speaking to here?" I reply as I raise my tea to my lips. She waves her hand with a smirk, dismissing my words as thought I'm a child.

"Oh, don't play coy with me Sherly," I hate when she calls me that, "I know you now. It's been deep, fast and now I know you. I know you think you're incapable of emotions and all that but hon, come on, why do you think you turned to the junk in the first place? No, I know you think it's because of your massive bloody intellect but don't you see? That's a cover, a lie you sell yourself to disguise the real issue."

She leans over the table. I really don't want to listen to her psychobabble. I get enough of that from the therapists in this joint but I know enough not to interrupt her or she will chuck a fit.

"You had feelings you didn't like so you drowned it out with the heroin. You used it as a dissociative, numbing the emotion and keeping your head clear. And don't try telling me otherwise because it's bullshit."

She leans back and stuffs her toast into her mouth. I want to argue. I want to tell her she's wrong but it's far too early to start a debate over the reason that drove me here. I opt for snark instead. Planting a depreciative smirk on my face I tilt my head just slightly and catch her eye.

"Pitiful analysis but just stupid enough for a place like this. Why don't you try out for a position here? Nurse Alexandria. Doctor Alexandria. Going to lead the group therapy? Going to sit at the head of the table? Going to solve all the nasty little addicts problems? Good luck with that."

She takes it well. She always does. She is rarely insulted by me. It's strange, she's just so laid back about everything and nothing seems to move her.

"Oh, you'd love that wouldn't you? If I took a job here. Then the next time your brother jams you in here I could sign you off as A-OK and get you out fast. Well no siree. My talents lie elsewhere."

She brushes crumbs from her small hands and glances at her cheap watch. She stands, not entirely graceful but years of addiction does seem to take a toll on ones posture and balance.

"Besides, James would have my head if I skipped out on him and stayed here."

With that she is wandering off towards the hall that leads to the bathroom and I'm left sitting at the table, tea still raised to my lips. She does that a lot. She'll just up and leave a conversation. It's irksome but I'm growing used to it after this last week. And yet, after all the information we've shared and confessed to I still don't know who this James is. She speaks of him a lot. Sometimes it seems like he is her boss, other times a personal saviour. Sometimes she makes it sound like he is her partner and others her brother. I don't quite understand their relationship. But then again, it's not often that I understand relationships between anyone. I make a mental note to hunt her down again before the group meeting and ask again.

 

\----------------------------

 

I catch Alex out on the balcony a few hours later after a particularly dull meeting with my doctor. She's snuck out for a cigarette. We're not supposed to smoke while we're here. The whole addiction thing seems to extend to nicotine as well. How little these professionals really know.

I wander to her side and hold out my hand. I'll be damned if she doesn't owe me atleast one fag after I covered her arse yesterday when she was off chatting up a fellow in the bathroom when she should have been in a meeting. She hands me her crushed packet, nearly empty with a weight that could only mean that she's stuffed her lighter in there as well. I take one out and sure enough it's bent from the lighter sliding around in the packet. I light it and inhale deeply, looking out at the boringly bland landscape around us. It seems so far away. The rolling hills and scattered trees out there. Meanwhile we are locked away in this old building reeking of bleach and surrender.

"What is he to you?" I ask in a determined tone. I need to know. She looks at me, I can see her turn from the corner of my eye but she doesn't reply.

"Alex," I'm being dead serious this time, I must know, "What is he? Is he your partner? Your brother? Your boss? Your friend? You never say what he is to you."

She's silent for a moment. I swear if she doesn't answer me this time I will throttle her. I turn to her with a stern look and I'm surprised to see her smiling.

"James is special," she offers, "he's really something special."

That doesn't clear things up. I stare at her, she knows I hate when she does this.

"See that makes it sound like you're sleeping with him."

She laughs, heartily and loud as though that was a completely preposterous statement. I wait it out but she keeps going until she's near doubled up and gasping for breath. 

"I guess that's a no."

She sighs and composes herself, cheeks flushed as she dramatically wipes a tear from her eye and stubs out her cigarette.

"God Sherlock, you really make me laugh."

I stare at her blankly.

"No," she finally explains, "nothing like that. James is as camp as a gay parade."

My blank stare continues. She has only eliminated one theory and has yet to offer a real explanation.

"James is..." She pauses, really thinking on how to answer. It's intriguing. "James is everything. He is everyone and everywhere. The world doesn't realise but he is in everything. He ismy boss, my hero, my guard, my friend - although he'd deny that last one until his death. He's like you. He doesn't have friends. Unless you count Sebby and even then I don't think he would hesitate to have him cut out if the opportunity arose."

"He sounds like a delightful man," I reply sarcastically.

She waves my words away with a scoff. How unbecoming. Ladies shouldn't make such throaty noises. Oh god, I sound like my brother don't I? Forget that thought.

"He may not be affectionate or sentimental but the man is astonishing. I've never met anyone like him."

I purse my lips and flick my finishined cigarette away.

"So what does he do?" I ask, leaning on the railing and looking at her. She shrugs, looking a bit confused, "Oh come on, the man paid for your rehabilitation, you clearly know something about him. Tell me."

"James is... A wonder. He makes things happen. All kinds of things. But we don't talk about it. It's not up to us to educate the public of his existance or position. Only he chooses who knows about him."

That still doesn't clear anything up.

"Sounds like a government official or mob boss. Both of which, as you know, I hold a high distaste for."

"Nah. Believe me, you'll love him. I'll introduce you two, he'll change your life. I promise."


	4. Chapter 4

The days pass quickly in the centre and before I know it I've hit day 23 with only a week left. Alex is due to leave tomorrow and I'm honestly a bit sad to see her go. We have exchanged phone numbers and I've sworn to contact her when I get out. This whole detox and rehabilitation ordeal wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. I've found that I actually missed my thoughts racing and being able to just look at a person and know everything about them. I really feel like myself again.

Unfortunately my dear brother has turned up during visiting hours today. I'm just coming back from a quick cigarette with Alex when I spot him hovering in the main room. I see him and he throws me one of those sneers he tries to pass off as a smile. Alex tugs on my sleeve and raises an eyebrow, asking if 'the statue fellow' is my elusive brother. I nod and part from her to wander over to him.

"What is it?" I ask abruptly, not really wanting to see him at all.

"I heard you were doing well." He stands tall, trying to be intimidating but failing because he doesn't and never has impressed me at all.

"You heard correctly."

There is a silent stand off as we stare at each other. I know he is waiting for me to thank him. He expects me to honour him as my saviour, the one who pushed me into becoming a better person, the one who cared enough to make me change, the one who helped and saved me from myself. But there will be no words of thanks because I am not thankful. Not for this change and not for his push. I would be just as happy laying on the floor of a doss house with a needle in my arm as I am in here. Probably happier if I'm honest. He will get no thanks from me.

He realises this and his cold grin falters, eyes drifting from me to save himself.  
"Who is your lovely companion?" He askes as he nods towards Alex who has taken a seat at the table to chat to Kristen.

"Don't play coy, Mycroft. You know who she is. You've done your research."

He hums to himself, staring at her across the room. I can see his brain ticking under his Brylcreemed hair, trying to figure out what is going on.

"No." I head him off before he starts.

"I wasn't sure but I thought... Well. Never mind. Now that you're clean I'm sure you can find one."

I scowl at him openly. Is he really thinking of me being in a relationship? Of all the things his mind could latch onto he goes with that? I am standing here, sober, in a rehabilitation centre after not having seen him for three weeks and the first thing he thinks happens to be 'is my little brother having an affair with that woman'? I expected... Well, I'm not sure exactly what I expected but it wasn't that.

"What do you want?" I repeat, already growing bored of his presence.

"I was just checking in. You'll be out in a week I see. I have a position for you when you return to reality."

"A job, Mycroft? No thanks. I'd rather not move into politics. The government has enough disappointments, needn't add another by employing me, right?"

"Not in my division, Sherlock. With the Yard. A fellow there owes me a favour. I thought you'd enjoy the work. I'll set up a meeting for you. You will go to it. You will listen to the offer and you will consider it."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Now is not the time to be immature. He always thinks he can order me around. He seems to forget that I'm not one of his employees or assistants. I'm his brother and I will not bend to his will just because he occupies a minor position in the bloody government.

"Perhaps." I say before turning away and waving to him over my shoulder. I'm not in the mood to deal with him and his commands. I'd rather relax and enjoy Alex's last night here with a bout of chain smoking and conversation out on the balcony. Mycroft can try all he likes to turn me into a respectable member of society. He can pull as many strings as he likes, call in favours, set up meetings but I'm not going to sit quietly and go along with his plans for me. He seems to forget that I am an actual person with independence and ideas of my own. He can't control me forever.

 

\------------------------------

 

"Remember, call me when you get out and we'll catch up."

I'm pulled into a one armed embrace, a mouthful of red hair chokes me and step backwards. She knows I don't like being touched like that. I swear she does it on purpose just to annoy me. But I nod with a smile that is only half false and let her go.  
She waves and walks out through the first door as others yell their goodbyes and well wishes. And there she goes. Alex is gone.  
I'm here for another six days and now I don't even have the fiery woman to keep me entertained. 

I return to my room where I lay and think alone. Six days and I'm back out in the world, clean and stable for the first time in years. What on earth am I going to do with myself? My entire life consisted of nothing but the drugs for so long. Every day was lived thinking of when or how I would score next. What am I supposed to do to pass the time now? I suppose I could take up Mycroft's offer. I may as well check it out and see what it's about. It should keep me occupied until I figure out what exactly I'm going to do.

The rest of my time is spent in silence. I attend the meetings, eat my meals and retire alone. Mycroft does not come to visit again and I begin to count down the hours until my dismissal. I miss my own bed. I miss my violin. I miss my books and my microscope. I miss my dressing gown and my own kettle. I am actually excited to get out and go back to having my own privacy and silence. I'm sick of the constant presence of other addicts and nurses, the dreary routine and limits on everything I do.

The day finally arrives and I pack my clothing away carefully, anxious to get out of here. I don't stop for breakfast, instead I sit in the main room at the small coffee table and wait. I'm not sure if Mycroft himself is coming to get me or if he is sending a lackey to do his dirty work this time. I wait patiently, staring at nothing in particular as my mind races through all the options I have from now on. What will I do?

"Mr. Holmes?" A feminine voice calls. I turn slowly to see a tall woman dressed in a blazer and pencil skirt standing at the door. So my brother has sent his P.A. rather than come himself. No problem, I can deal with this. Less questions to be answered and less glares to avoid. I stand, hoisting my small bag of belongings with me as I walk towards her slowly.

This is it. I'm going home.


	5. Chapter 5

The trip is quiet. There are no questions, no conversation, just the low rumble of the car as it weaves through streets and takes me home. I say no thanks as I leave the vehicle instead just anxious to get to my own flat and be comfortable again.

Mrs. Hudson is waiting at the door and pulls me into an embrace with tears in her eyes. I didn't realise that my addiction had affected her at all but here she is, sobbing about how happy she is that I'm okay now. I follow her up the stairs and to my flat. It feels like I haven't been here in years but it's only been a little over a month. 

Mycroft has gone over it with a fine toothed comb. The place is spotless and everything has been moved around as he had his people no doubt go over it looking for stashes of narcotics and paraphernalia. My books are out of order, my violin is sitting on the otherwise bare coffee table, my dishes that were sat in the sink have been washed and put away. It feels wrong. It doesn't feel like home at all. Where is my organised chaos?

Mrs. Hudson sits me down at the table, clean from all debris and the usual mess that litters it and chatters away about her friends, her tenants, her life. I try to listen but all I can think of is that this doesn't feel right. She sets a cup of tea before me and I smile, nod graciously as I lift it.

The flat... It is clean and strange. I suppose it mimics myself. I'm clean, been scoured and disinfected. I'm bare and unsure of myself. I don't know what to do, nothing seems right anymore. Without the clutter and consuming need for my next hit I don't know what I am. Is this how normal people feel all the time? So empty and uncertain? No wonder I turned to the drugs if I was feeling like this before. I vaguely wonder if I could get away to score without anyone noticing. I'm no longer addicted but god, being high seems like the better option here. I don't want to sit here clean and boring. I want to run and take risks. I want to be in danger. I want to fight and scream and be alive. I want... Something. Anything would be better than this blank feeling of ambivalence. 

I'm drawn out of my rapidly growing discomfort by Mrs. Hudson tapping me in the shoulder. She hands me my mobile phone. Ahh. I've forgotten about that. I have been without contact for a month now. The device feels strange in my hand. I haven't used it in weeks. I silently turn it on, wondering if anyone at all has even bothered to contact me. Who was there who would miss me? I don't have friends and no one really knows me. The only people I communicated with before my stint in the rehabilitation centre were fellow addicts and dealers. My life was nothing but the junk. No one could have missed me. If anyone had noticed the lack of my presence they surely would have simply assumed that I had died or got clean and prompty forgotten I'd ever inhabited the same floor of a doss house as them. Forgotten that I owed them or they owed me. Forgotten that we shared a cigarette or a conversation. Heroin does that. You forget about people. The drug pushes away any emotion and so any and all relationships mean nothing in the end. Without emotion there is nothing tying you together. I have been forgotten.

Expecting nothing I am surprised to find that I have four text messages. I stare at the small screen wondering who on earth has remembered me. 

I'm free! I expect a call as soon as you're out too! -Alex

I told James about you. I said I'd bring you in to meet him. He apparently knows your family. - Alex

Duno wot hapned 2 u havnt seen u in ages. Hope ur not dead. x emmy

You're out today. Call me and we'll get coffee. - Alex

The three from Alex are understandable but who the hell is Emmy? I think back, trying to remember who she is. Obviously a user but who is she? Did we share a mattress? Did we share a moment? I honestly don't recall ever meeting someone named Emmy and I certainly don't remember giving her my phone number. Best to ignore it.

I shoot off a reply to Alex letting her know that I'm home and that coffee would be delightful as long as she's paying. I suppose it's a start. I may feel wrong and hollow, unsure of exactly what I'm supposed to do but having a goal, even if it is only to leave the house to meet with Alex, settles me a little. Maybe things won't be quite so horrible if I at least have someone I know and am able to stand speaking to that will help me.

I recall Mycroft offering me something with the Yard. I send him a text telling him I'm open to an interview whenever he can swing it. That should keep me occupied while I figure out if this is really how I want to feel or if I'm better off dropping back into the world of narcotics and blissful tranquility.

\------------------------------

 

The first day home I spend rearranging the flat to suit my taste. Mycroft has ripped it apart looking for my stash. My sock index is messed up, my wardrobe is a disaster, my mattress has been pulled apart then stuffed back together as suspicious hands sought out the illicit substances I used. My bathroom cabinet is chaos and the lounge room is all wrong. Everything has been overturned as they searched and then put back not in it's correct place, but in a 'neater' place. Why couldn't they just leave things alone?

Mrs. Hudson has obviously been in and cleaned the flat as there is no dust, no dirt, no grime. I've never seen the place so clean and god, it's all wrong. I spend hours ripping the books from my shelves and reordering them in the correct sequence. Another hour is spent fixing the bathroom. The towels are not supposed to hang like that. The soap is in the wrong place. I work late into the night rearranging my bedroom. I tear the sheets from the bed and redress it. I recatalogue the magazines and notes I kept in boxes beneath my bed. I fix my wardrobe, clothing is supposed to go in colour order. The socks take forty minutes to put back in place. Night has fallen by the time I flop onto my bed and groan with frustration.

Why did they have to mess everything up? It's nearly impossible to get things back to how they were when I left. I'll be giving Mycroft a mouthful when I see him next. The twat just can't mind his own business. It's not like his search would have been successful. I very rarely kept my drugs in my house. It's nicer to leave the flat to score. I liked to sit in the corner and observe the other users as they followed suit and snorted, smoked and shot up around me. Why would I keep a stash in the flat? I rarely used while at home. There was nothing to do, no one to study if I sat alone in a high here.

I'm pulled from my thoughts as my phone vibrates on the bedside table. I reach over to grab it, opening the text message waiting for me. It's only Alex congratulating me and telling me an address and time for coffee tomorrow. I vaguely wonder how she's doing, if she managed to fall back into place easily or if she struggled to adjust to clean life. Did she immediately go back to this James and return to work? Or is she struggling, unsure and wanting to use again? I shall have to remember to ask her these things when I see her tomorrow. But for now, my body has fallen into a pattern thanks to the weeks in rehabilitation and I can feel myself grow tired.

I hate routine and I hate sleeping. I hate monotony and schedule and this ridiculous detoxing has forced me to follow strict rules and limits. My body has adjusted to such routine and I hate it. I must find something to throw it back into unpredictability soon before I get stuck in a rut of wake-eat-sit-eat-sleep and waste away to become an ordinarily boring person.

If I had belief I'd pray to a deity to throw something at me to disrupt the schedule. Bring me danger, risk, challenge. Give me something to keep me entertained. Something thrilling and hazardous. Anything as long as it distracts me from the monotonous drearly life that is normalcy. I don't think I can stand such tedious motions. I need something more.


	6. Chapter 6

It's half nine in the morning and I'm aching a little as I wander down the street, hands in my pockets as I head out to meet Alex. My mind is full of questions to ask her. She's had a week out here to get back into the swing of clean living. I've been out one night and that was spent reorganising everything I owned to distract myself from the allure of walking straight out of the flat and scoring to entertain myself. I have so many things to ask. She must have tips, hints, ways to help distract the mind from wandering to the now forbidden high.

I'm irritable and tired after having tossed and turned all night. I did not sleep as well as I thought I would once I was in my own bed again. I curse Alex for having decided to meet so early after my first bloody night home. I should have declined, postponed it for another day or at least pushed the time back. It's horrible being out here in the cold after a sleepless night. The only thing that managed to get me to drag myself out of my bed and out here to the main drag for her is the prospect of getting a free coffee.

I push my way into the cafe she chose. It's small and simple, warm compared to outside. It's full of business men and students, all kinds of bland and horrible people. I look around but fail to see Alex anywhere. There is no mass of flaming red hair atop a tiny body in the crowded cafe. There is, however, a man in the corner booth staring at me over the top of his folded hands. He is blank faced, emotionless and staring right at me.

With a contained sigh I realise what Alex has done. The idiot has set me up and on my first day out here. Does she have no manners? I was looking forward to talking to her and discussing what exactly I'm supposed to do now that I'm so boringly sober. If she thinks this is funny then she is going to be sorely disappointed. This isn't a game. I needed to see her, I needed to ask things, I needed a distraction and instead of helping, she's sent in who I assume can only be her mysterious sponsor.

I could turn around and walk straight out of here, give her a call and rant at her but I'm already here. I've already crawled out of bed, showered and dressed and travelled down here. I needn't make it a waste of time really and I can't deny I'm not still curious about about this fellow. Everything Alex told me about him only caused more confusion and intrigue, questions and interest. Why not give up my morning to meet the man who she so idolises?

I walk to the table and stop before the booth to survey him, trying to deduce him. I must say, he makes a good first impression. No facial ticks, no expression to reveal his thoughts. There is no movement except for the slow blink of his dark eyes and the soft motion of his chest as he breathes. His hair is slicked back neatly, clean shaven, hands free of blemishes from what I can see. The suit he wears is expensive. The tie pin contains a diamond and is laid in white gold, clean cut and shining. This is a man who does not get dirty, does not get physical. He is well guarded and his gaze suggests he is confident, uninterested but polite. 

"James."

It is not a question. It is a statement. First word in and I'm already coming off as less than gracious. Perhaps not the best opening but I've nothing else to say. I'm honestly a little shocked at his appearance.

His lip curls into a smirk but nothing else moves.

"You're not what I expected," I admit still standing before him as I look down. He moves at that, unfolding his hands and gesturing to the seat opposite him.

"I'm not sure whether or not to take that as a compliment."

I'm surprised at his voice. It doesn't seem to match at all. His appearance is stoic, cold but his voice is... Different. There is an Irish lilt that is barely noticeable but it carries in a songlike way, cheerful and soft. I'm taken aback by the sound but cover my surprise by unravelling my scarf and sitting down. Our eyes do not leave each other. It's odd. He isn't speaking. It's rare to be in the company of someone who doesn't desperately try to fill the silence with mindless chatter. Moments pass and conversation does not start. We just stare at each other. I can't figure him out. It's unsettling.

I break first. Point one to James.

"I didn't expect you to be so put together. I was under the impression that most of Alex's associates were less than savoury."

He smiles sightly and replies softly.

"You aren't what I expected either. Alexandria said she met you in the centre. I was assuming you'd be like the other - oh what's the word - crackheads."

I smirk at that. So he isn't as polite as his demeanour suggests then.

"So who exactly are you? What do you do?"

He winces dramatically at that. God, she was right. I can tell he tends just from that expression.

"Oh no, we're not jumping straight into that. We've not even ordered drinks yet," he says in a mockingly affronted tone as he stands, unfolding his hands and smoothing down his charcoal blazer, "what are you having?"

His mannerisms are strange and I can't say he's not interesting.

"Mocha. No sugar."

He returns a few minutes later he returns and places a cup before me. I utter a thanks as he takes his seat opposite me again. I watch as he tears open a sugar packet carefully and upends it into his own drink. He rips at another. And a third. He reaches for a fourth and I know I'm staring but it's ridiculous. If I hadn't picked up on the accent before it would most definitely be this moment here that made it clear he is not from around here. Again I catch myself thinking as Mycroft would and mentally shake myself. I shouldn't allow myself to judge someone's habits based on social traits of my own heritage in comparison to others.

"Sweet tooth?" I ask, smirking as I lift my cup to my lips. He smiles as he stirs the mound of sweetener into his drink.

"Bad habit, I admit. But the most innocent of my flaws."

Well that's intriguing. I sip at my drink, it's quite good actually. If nothing else, at least I have recieved a lovely hot beverage free of charge during this meeting.

"Alex was rather mysterious about you. She refused to answer basic questions or elaborate on anything. So tell me, who are you?"

He sips at his own drink and closes his eyes, clearly enjoying it before he answers me.

"She told me about you. About your talent for seeing what other's miss. So why don't you impress me and tell me who I am."

Oh bugger. Alex has blabbed to this man about me but kept me in the dark about him. Bint. Then again, James is practically asking for me to show off and I do love a willing audience. I let my eyes scan him as pieces slot into place and I determine facts.

"James. Unknown surname. Mid to late twenties. I'm betting on twenty six, maybe twenty seven. Irish but you've been in London for quite some time judging by your voice. Confident. Your tie pin suggests you are either incredibly wealthy or awfully frivolious. Your suit is tailored, it screams class and politeness but your mannerisms suggest that it is a learned process, a front. Manners are not deeply ingrained but rather a show. You have lose your accent purposely, perhaps you are ashamed of your past, your heritage, where you come from, what you have come from. Your hands are clean, manicured. I'd say you work offices. Judging by your slight squint perhaps you do computer work, IT or labs, that keeps you away from natural light for hours at a time. You take care in your appearance but it isn't to impress. Perhaps that is a touch of OCD? There's a bulge at the back of your pants to the right. It's a handgun stuck in the waistband of your trousers so you are armed but why would an office worked arm himself to go to a café? A mystery at the moment. The position of said firearm suggests you are left handed although you stirred your coffee with your right. Ambidextrous? Perhaps. Your clothing is ostentatious. You have dressed to make an impression today but why? Why dress so well if you had assumed you were meeting with, what was the term? A crackhead?"

He stares at me, lips curled as he sips at his drink. He places it down gently and folds his hands again.

"Good. Very good. Although..."

"What part was wrong? There's always something."

His smirk widens and reaches his eyes this time. He slips his tongue over his lips and I can't help but follow it's movement.

"I'm thirty."


	7. Chapter 7

That's not such a terrible mistake. It's complimentary if anything. People are usually glad when they appear younger than they actually are, aren't they? They like to seem young. It makes them feel good, right?

"And that's all you'll get about me unless I decide to reveal it. Now what of you? What makes you special enough for our little Alexandria to deem you appropriate company for me?"

Is there anything to tell? I've been scoured and scrubbed, there's not much left in me. I don't know who I am anymore so what am I supposed to tell him?

"Special? There is nothing but my intellect if I'm honest. A talent for deduction and eye for detail. I can put things together. Other than that, there is... Little else."

He shakes his head in disagreement.

"You're wrong there, Sherlock. No, you're wrong."

I've known the man barely ten minutes and he thinks he can read me? Thinks he knows me? He thinks that I'm mistaken about myself? That statement was the only thing I know for sure about myself now. I have nothing but my mind and I honestly have no problem with that. I've always found a way to manage existing with nothing but my intellect and the vessel that houses it. I open my mouth to argue but he continues to speak, eyes burning into me as he stares over the table.

"Alexandria may not be as clever or insightful as you but she can judge people. She knows what I like and she clearly saw it in you. You are mistaken if you think that she was wrong. She is rarely incorrect in her assumptions which is why I picked her up in the first place. I can see why she brought you to me even if you can't.  
Alexandria clearly thought you were interesting enough for my attention. She knows I despise dull people. So what is it that makes you interesting? I can't just be your intellect, thought I do prize a well used mind over nearly everything else. You must have exhibited something that she thought would intrigue me enough to bare your company.  
Physically, well... Let's start small. I can see your hands. They are musicians hands. Those digits are perfect for piano or strings. Alexandria either noticed this or you told her straight out that you play an instrument. She knows I adore music.  
I know you come from a prestigious family. I have had the honour of... Interacting with your brother in the past. Alexandria must assume you are different from the man because she is well aware that I would rather peel my skin off than deal with him or anyone of his like. Alexandria knows me well and it seems she has seen traits in you that she thinks would please me. I do hope you prove her right, I don't need another waste of time."

He sits back, relaxing into the seat and takes another sip of his drink. His gaze still hold mine and I feel my eyes narrow sceptically. So Alex only struck up a comaderie with me in the hopes that she could send me along to James? I feel somewhat betrayed, angry. I am not something to be passed along from person to person. I am better than that, I deserve better. I take a breath and fall into myself. I'll show him what I can do, how much better I am than some plaything to be passed around.

"You know my brother. That narrows down your position to government, royalty or the underground. If we are going by my previous deductions then you work inside, screens, fake lights, offices, computers. That being said, your accent and firearm rule out royalty. I know the family like to keep their workers to their own sort. They'd never have an Irish man come into their organisation. Government is still possible but I've never met a political worker who both keys computers and carries a gun. Not to mention none of them are paid enough to afford such ridiculously overpriced suits and pretentious tie pins. There's only a slim chance that you're employed by the same people who sign my brother's cheques.  
That leaves the underground. So if you're doing something illegal tha explains the gun and the mystery. Your relationship with Alex is explained that way too. You'll find that a lot of addicts turn to crime when their supplies run dry or they hit rock bottom. Is that how you found her? Was she running jobs for you?  
But what kind of work do you do if it's criminal? It must be important if you managed to get my brother involved. He usually only deals with controversy and imminent threats. How do you know him? A run in? How big are you? How far do you go? What exactly do you do?"

He stares at me smiling, his eyes wide as though impressed. Good. I hope he's impressed. I hope he realises I'm not one to be thrown around and used. I am so much more than that.

"Good. I like that. I like that a lot."

He leans forwards and lowers his voice, his Irish lilt appears stronger when he whispers.

"I fix problems. I can fix your problem too, if you like."

 

 

\------------------------------

 

 

I may have been mistaken. Alex may not have sent me here to become a toy for James. I may have been wrong. He fixes things. He can fix my problem. But how does he even know I have a problem? I never told Alex about my ridiculous fear of becoming bland or my delirious need to endanger myself by placing myself in situations that hold risk. So how does he know I have a problem?

"My problem?" I ask blankly, hiding the surprise from my tone.

"Don't look at me like that. I know what you're thinking. No, Alexandria didn't bring you here for any purpose other than to see if we would get along considering our similiarities. And no, she didn't tell me you have a problem. I can see it for myself by looking at you and putting together the pieces.  
A brother in a high place. The family name on the line. Throwing yourself into dangerous situations and destroying yourself simply because the world isn't as exciting as you want it to be. I know your rehabilitation was involuntary and I know you enjoy risk.  
All I'm saying is that adjusting to a clean life is difficult for someone who needs constant intellectual stimulation and can't stand boredom. Alexandria told me about what you used and why. It's fairly simple to figure it all out. You're not as complex and mysterious as you think you are. Or perhaps I'm just good at reading you. Either way, I think you'll enjoy yourself and find it easier if you associate with me. I can fix your problem. I can give you entertainment, risk, danger, stimulation. Isn't that what you want?"

"What exactly did you have in mind? How will you make things easier for me? You're clearly a criminal, a notorious one if you've interacted with my brother. Do you really think that I will just fall into place and help you do whatever it is that you do? Stealing and murdering isn't going to alleviate the boredom, it's just going to get me into trouble."

He looks scandalised, as though I've offended him. His expression is wide but I can tell it's a mask. Are any of his expressions real?

"I never said anything about theft or murder. And I never said you could help me with my work. Besides, I have other people for that. No, no. Just go back home and try to adjust to being sober and when you feel boredom strike, I'll know. I'll send you something to help keep your mind distracted."

He smiles at me and moves to stand as he drains his cup. I'm still not entirely sure what is going on or what is to come from this meeting. I mimic his motion and stand. With both of us on our feet I see that he is a good six inches shorter than me and it makes me feel a little better about the whole ordeal. I stand taller than him, it gives me a sense of intimidation.

He holds out his hand as though to offer a farewell shake and I move slowly to clasp it. His skin is cold despite having been wrapped around the hot beverage. I feel a patch of skin rougher than the rest at the base of his index finger. That's a surprise. Friction burn on a trigger finger. Maybe his hands aren't as clean as I first thought.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock," he says calmly with a tilt of his head.

I nod and shake his hand, "We'll see, James."

"Please, call me Jim."


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing I see when I enter my flat is not a particularly pleasant sight. My dear brother is sitting in my arm chair twirling my spare key between his long fingers. I sigh in furstration and slam the door behind me. After this morning I just want some time to sit and think, weigh up my options and figure out if any of this is worth it. It's only been a few days out here and already I'm slightly confused and bored out of my mind. Where's a hit when you need it...

"What do you want?" I ask harshly as I flop onto my sofa, not bothering with a greeting or the usual pleasantries.

"I was in the neighbourhood and decided to stop by to see how you were doing."

"A likely story," I mutter under my breath. He fixes me with a cold stare and stills his fingers, watching me over his hand.

"Did you think about my proposition?"

I look over at him blankly, seemingly uninterested but I'm slightly curious as to what strings he has managed to pull this time just to keep me out his way. He's always trying to turn me into a respectable member of society but he never succeeds. That just isn't me. It's just so boring.

"The Yard, Sherlock. I know you like to solve puzzles. I have a, shall we say, friend at the Yard who is open to taking you on as a consultant for some cases. Are you interested?"

I steeple my fingers under my chin and think. Do I want to indulge Mycroft and check out what's happening at the new Yard? I suppose having access to all that information and apparently helping the police would give me something to do while I try to fit the urge to pop down to the nearest dealer. It could work out to be a nice distraction. It could be somewhat dangerous. And I do love puzzles.

But what of James strange offer? He said he could help me. He said he could entertain me, keep me occupied. I'm not sure exactly how he would do such a thing or if he is even capable of drawing and keeping my attention. I may as well take Mycroft up on his offer, even if it is only temporary until, or rather if, James can come up with something impressive.

"All right. I'll give it a go."

Mycroft gives me a cold smile. He can't even fake positive expressions. His grins and laughter never reach to his cold eyes. He's a horrible actor. It's no wonder the government keeps him behind the scenes. If I had that face and lack of acting abilities I'd stay away from potential clients and spies too. 

"Good. I will call my man and set up a meeting, a simple case for you to help with. If you enjoy it and are successful he will no doubt call you in regularly for consultations. Won't that be pleasant?"

I wave my hand at him impatiently.

"Fine, fine. Now can you leave? I still have an absurd amount of organising to do. Your little drug squad destroyed every last hint of order I had here and I've not forgiven you yet."

He stands, affronted at my bluntness and throws my key back at me. I catch it and stuff it carelessly into my pocket. I need to keep my spares away from him. I'm sick of him waltzing in whenever he wants with such ease. Let him have to pick the lock like the rest of us if he wants to trespass.

 

 

\--------------------

 

 

I'm standing in the foyer of the police station waiting for one Detective Inspector G. Lestrade to see me. It's strange that I'm here by choice and not being hauled in here for possession or obstruction or whatever ridiculous reasons they've arrested me for in the past. It's pouring outside and all I want is a tea and a cigarette. This had better be worth me climbing out of my warm bed and trudging across London.

It's the kind of day where not even two months ago I would be cocooned in my Belstaff in the corner of a doss, blissfully lolling my head and observing the addicts around me as I listen to the rain. Those were the best days. The days where the air was cold and I didn't mind so much if another person lay at my feet or curled into my side seeking heat.

Winter was nice. I didn't feel quite so alone then. I'd settle with a few other users, we'd all take a hit and huddle together, our skeletal forms never barely up well in the cold weather of Winter months. But we'd help each other. We'd share heat and coats and cigarettes, exchanging jackets and lighters but not names or stories. It was always quiet, peaceful in a sad and desperate kind of way.

I must admit, I miss it a little. I couldn't stomach the thought of actively sharing body heat with another person now that I'm sober. That kind of behaviour is only acceptable when you're shaking and trembling in a strange house with even stranger people and no clear line between reality and the high.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes."

I'm torn from my memories by a gruff voice. I look up to see a man who must be a few years older than my brother. Silver streaks extend from his temples but he can't be over forty. His face is slightly tanned and his eyes are bright. He is sporting slight stubble and slouches but not out of bad posture, merely exhaustion. I can tell just by looking at him that he is having problems. His wife is leaving him, his kids moving on, his drinking is getting the better of him and he hasn't slept well in days. Stressed, anxious, lonely. And yet he still manages to smile and unlike my brother, it does in fact reach his warm eyes.

"D.I. Lestrade, I imagine."

He reaches out to shake my hand and I oblige before following him as he turns and walks down the hallway to his office. It's a simple room. A large desk littered with folders and empty coffee cups, a corkboard covered in cuttings and notes, a laptop is balancing among the papers on the desk. Typical beat runner office.

One thing does manage to catch my eye. He has his jacket slung over his desk chair, folded twice to create a sort of makeshift pillow. He slept in his office last night. Whether it was because of his home life or due to a late night of tedious work, I'm not sure yet.

He sits down in his chair and runs a hand over his forehead, watching as I take the seat opposite him.

"So your brother told me you're smart and you wouldn't mind helping us out with a few cases."

I scowl at him, "my brother only wants me to help you so that he had take a break from watching me by having your officers keep an eye on me instead. He just wants me to keep out of trouble so I don't tarnish his name. I couldn't care less about your cases or laws. This is not a moral endeavour of a good samaritan, it is my brother forcing me into supervision and distracting me like a child."

He cocks his head at me with a frown. I guess he wasn't expecting that. Perhaps he was under the impression that I wanted to help just for the sake of helping.

"Right. So if I show you some case files and let you in will you turn away or give us some insight? If you're not going to assist us then you can turn around and leave. I'm not going to force you into anything just because your brother asked me to. I'm not a bloody babysitter. This is my job and I'm not going to dedicate time and effort to convincing some stray off the street to poke around if nothing will come of it. No matter how persuasive your damn family is."

I'm impressed. Usually my brother says 'jump' and the police say 'how high'. Odd that this one isn't following orders given by the British government first hand. I immediately take a liking to him. Common ground and all, we both refuse to do whatever Mycroft says without so much as a 'why'. I like this man. He stands up for himself.

I let my mouth curl into a subtle smile as my eyes narrow.

"Detective Inspector, I would be happy to take a look and help you out. But only if you personally choose the cases. Do not let my brother dictate what you show me and I think we will get along just fine."


	9. Chapter 9

"Don't you see? She wasn't missing at all. She wasn't abducted, she wasn't murdered, it wasn't a crime at all. Unless you count stupidity as illegal which it bloody well should be."  
  
"Right, I got that Sherlock but that doesn't explain what happened to her."  
  
I throw my hands into the air in exasperation and sigh. Am I really going to have to explain everything constantly? They just can't seem to follow simple logic.  
  
"Gloria Holland wasn't kidnapped. She's not missing. Her husband is an idiot. He hasn't noticed that his secretary has been calling in sick? He hasn't noticed the change in fragrance his wife is using? He hasn't noticed the change in attitude from both women? It's obvious! If you were to check the call log for Mr. Holland's assistant's phone you'd find his home number in there many times but only during work hours, not after or on weekends. There is adultery a foot. But he's not having an affair with her. You always assume the man is sleeping with his attractive young worker. It's a bloody disgustingly biased fantasy and you couldn't be more wrong. It's his wife! His wife has been sleeping with the secretary! She's been thinking of leaving him for months and now she's done it. You'll find that the lovely young lady who works for Mr. Holland has taken out holidays for two weeks. But she's not on vacation. She's pissed off with Gloria. They both left Mr. Holland and who could blame them really? He is so incredibly self centred, he's in an enormous amount of debt and his business is going bust. Not to mention his acute erectile-"  
  
"All right! That's enough, we get the idea Sherlock!" Lestrade is waving his hand at me impatiently. I think he's got it now. Idiots. They never think outside of their own little bubble of normalcy. If they simply stopped thinking with much limitations, such restrictions, if they only widened their mind and stopped themselves from automatically assuming things based on their own bias and opinions then maybe they would reach the right conclusion more often. If only they weren't so stupid.  
  
Days pass without incident. Lestrade begins to let me onto active cases, crime scenes. It all gets a little bit exciting but it still doesn't compare to the risk and unpredictability that I was experiencing before my dear brother interfered. I still miss the uncertainty of if I was going to wake up alone, with someone or not at all. I do miss the indetermination of whether I was going to be going homeless in exchange for another hit. I miss the irrationality of not knowing what was going to happen next. I simply miss the danger. I don't even think it's the actual high that I miss, just the consequences.  
  
I fall into a routine. Dull, repetitive, predictable. It drives me to despair. Day after day of the same cases, hardly challenging. I feel like I'm back in the centre with this kind of schedule. I find myself alone in the flat seriously considering the pros and cons of going out to score more and more frequently. And isn't that just sad?  
  
  
  
  
\------  
  
  
  
  
It's been an exhausting day. Incredibly long but not because I had many things to do. In fact it's quite the opposite. I woke to find Mycroft tapping at my door. An argument ensued. I had to stop by the Yard where Lestrade insisted I stay and help go over case files with his team. An argument ensued. Mrs. Hudson was cleaning the flat and found my handgun. An argument ensued. I decided to have take away from the Chinese place down the road. An argument ensued.  
  
Today has been nothing but people arguing and fighting me and I'm bloody tired. I surrender. I give up. I forfeit. I'm done with trying to help people, trying to explain things, trying to make them understand me. What I'd like nothing more right now is to fall into nothingness and reliquish the need to think. I just want one moment, one second where I don't have to think for others or even myself. I just want to rest.  
  
But that is much easier said than done. My mind does not shut down at will. It does not turn off and allow me to rest. Instead it is constantly turning, whirling, observing, comprehending. From the minute I wake my mind twirls and spins, a cresendo ending in a violent explosion where I simply cannot focus and pass out from mental exhaustion. I just want a respite, a break from the need to consider, to think, to decide. But without the pleasant dissociation that comes with the sweet spike of a high, I am lost for ways to recreate the blank bliss I miss so very much.  
  
I find myself sprawled on my settee in my dressing gown simply reciting the periodic table in descending order of atomic number to distract my brain from overthinking. I am snapped from my recount by my phone. It is late into the night, no one contacts me this late. I slide my finger across the screen to retrieve and read the text message.  
  
 _Bored? I have a puzzle for you. JM_  
  
I stare at the message. JM? I don't know any- ahh. James Moriarty. I don't even bother questioning how he got my phone number. Alex most likely gave it to him and if not that, then he was obviously connected enough to find it himself. How many other Sherlock Holmes are there in London? It isn't much of a feat to track me down. I really shouldn't be surprised that he could find me and send me a message out of boredom. He did say he could alleviate my problem and here he is, texting me with a puzzle apparently.  
  
 _Explain this puzzle. SH_  
  
The reply comes less than five seconds later and contains nothing but a photo of what appears to be a view from a window. I can just discern the faint outline of his reflection in the glass as he holds his phone to take the picture.  
  
I can barely make out the scene but it looks vaguely familiar. I can only assume he wants me to tell him where I think he is. I run through images in my mind, trying to pair the photo with places I have been. I come up with nothing. I decide to narrow it down by focusing on the nearly obscured window frame. It is somewhat unique. Late seventeenth century handwork. It looks authentic rather than replicated. That being said it seems French in origin. So he's in France. Narrow that down by the hotels because no one actually lives in houses with mullioned windows and framework like that anymore. The view... I see hills. Wooded hills. Let's say it's Versailles judging on the landscape I can make out.  
  
I run a quick search and yes, there was a flight to Versailles from Heathrow this morning. Now hotels in Versailles. Price range, high because I know he has wealth. The first that springs to mind is the Trianon Palace. Check in... not many today. I can't get room numbers but I can get names. Obviously there is no James Moriarty but I do see a Jim Moran. I smile to myself. Relatively easy.  
  
 _Trianon Palace, Versailles. Judging by the view I'm guessing something above the fifth floor. SH_

_Good. Very good. I'm sending you something a little closer to home. It'll be there when you wake tomorrow. JM_

I don't reply to that, instead I find myself running through ideas of what exactly he will send me to figure out. That was fairly simple itself but it did show that he has faith in my abilities and not just at reading people. I fall asleep quickly with thoughts of what else he can occupy me with, eager for someone to give me something to think about that isn't feeble attempts at crime. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he can fix my problem, perhaps he can cure my boredom.


	10. Chapter 10

James' next puzzle is trickier. Alex must be keeping him updated on my actions because this particular little challenge turns up in the form of a case that Lestrade is proceeding over. It takes a whole twelve hours beginning with a robbery of an old woman's jewellry and ending after twelve hours of research and sleuthing in a murdered man clutching a sheet of stationary from, yes, the Trianon Palace.

Things continue on this way as days turn into weeks. The unpredictability of if a case at the Yard will end up being one of James jobs is what keeps me going back to the bland office and their team of imbeciles. Sometimes I'll have nothing for weeks, only boring disconnected regular crimes and sometimes I'll have something so elaborate that it takes days to figure out. The difficult ones are best. He knows I enjoy complex cases and so he sets them up, somehow has the majority handed to Lestrades division and palmed off to me. 

To an ordinary person this would seem disturbing, obscene, immoral. One man creating chaos just so another man can get a kick from solving it but it works. It alleviates my boredom and James seems to enjoy it as far as I can tell. We don't speak or meet for weeks. Our correspondance is usually a text from me to him letting him know that I've figured something out or asking if he had a hand in certain things. He replies with nothing but praise, kind words and promises to keep things interesting. It may not be a conventional situation but I find myself thoroughly enjoying his puzzles, his complex crimes and I can't deny that the praise and encouragement boosts my esteem.

When I tell Alex that I'm pleased with how he is distracting me she merely smiles and tells me that this is just the beginning. It is as equally exciting as it is concerning. If this is just the start, the tip of the iceberg that James Moriarty is preparing for me, then what on earth is next?

 

 

\------------

 

 

"Who is James Moriarty?"

My brother's face tenses and he looks straight at me, his cold eyes unblinking as he thinks before he replies.

"No one of import."

It's a lie. I have known this man my entire life. I know his ticks, his twitches, his movements. I know that this is a lie. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at him.

"Excellent. So it wouldn't matter to you if I decided to say, interact with him?"

I almost smile at his reaction. His lips thin and his jaw clenches before he forces a faux grin, stretching out with no warmth or amusement at all.

"I would suggest you don't."

"Why? What do you know?"

"James Moriarty is a criminal. He has been on and off of our radar for years. He is a psychopath with no regard for others. He lives with no purpose other than to cause trouble and hurt others. With your history and personality I would consider it unwise for you to communicate with such a person. It would undoubtably end in disaster."

I force myself to remain blank and uninterested as I turn to him and catch his eye.

"Sounds dangerous."

"Not in the sense you are thinking of, Sherlock. Stay away. Please."

"But Mycroft, dear brother, I need some excitement in my life."

He grimaces slightly and stares at me, he hates when I challenge him, when I purposely ignore warnings or orders. He should know by now that I will never make things easy for him.

"For god sake. I've got you clean, I've found you a place to live, I even made Lestrade take you on. What else could you possibly want? What else must I give you to keep you occupied and sated?"

I raise an eyebrow. I don't want what he can give me. I want something more. More what, I'm unsure. I just want more. I want more entertainment, more challenges, more risk, more understanding. I just want more.

"Stay away, Sherlock. I will know if you don't. We have him under surveillance. I will know if you go against me. And I will not hesitate to stop you."

Well, that is a challenge. I nod in false surrender at his words but inside, I am brimming with excitement. So Mycroft doesn't want me associating with James. That just makes me want to do it even more. Adding the risk of punishment via Mr. British Government just makes all of this chaos and case solving that much more alluring. He shouldn't have said anything. He's going to regret ever sending me to that rehabilitation centre. I'm going to frustrate him as badly as he has frustrated me over the years. And James Moriarty seems to be a good way to start.

 

It's late one night and I'm waiting, impatient and bored while I wait for results of my current experiment when I decide to push a little. At first I was content with what I was being given but after Mycroft's stern warning I can't help but feel the need to push for more if only to piss him off.

_Bored. SH_

I wait for a response, eager to see if James will give me more, something that will attract Mycrofts attention and annoy him. Minutes go by and I recieve nothing. I've almost given up and go to put my phone down when it vibrates.

_And you want a puzzle. JM_

__

_Yes. SH_

_You do realise that you are not my only concern. I do not exist solely for your entertainment. JM_

_Please. SH_

_I have nothing at the moment. It's my day off. Go pester your brother or that precious D.I. JM_

_They are dull. You are not, James. SH_

_Jim. JM_

_Pardon? SH_

_I told you to call me Jim. Only employees and clients call me James. JM_

_And I am not a client? SH_

_Oh no, Mr. Holmes. I ask for no payment from you. JM_

_Am I a charity case? SH_

_Hardly. JM_

_If I pay will you give me more? SH_

_More what, Sherlock? More puzzles? More challenges? More of a risk? More of the same? More danger? More of myself? What do you really want? JM_

_To be distracted. SH_

_I thought my little games were distracting. Are they not good enough for you? JM_

_They are good. I just want more. What am I supposed to do between what you give me? SH_

_What did you do before I came along? JM_

_You know what I did. SH_

_Of course. But as I said, I have nothing for you tonight. Unless you feel like swapping sides and creating a disaster rather than cleaning one up. JM_

_No thank you. SH_

_Your loss. I'll send you something soon. Chin up, stay calm and be patient, love. JM_

I don't bother to reply to that. I'm not sure what I really expected. I know that James, Jim, Jim is in reality getting nothing from this. I know he has other business to attend to and I am not his top priority. Why would I be? I've only met the man once and we hardly know anything of each other besides the fact that we can apparently entertain ourselves where ordinary people fail.

I think about his question. What exactly do I want? To be distracted, to have my attention focused, yes. But he has managed that and I still want more. What do I want from him in particular? The question leaves me wondering what exactly I'm aiming to accomplish by interacting with Jim. What am I trying to do here? Do I really expect this potentially dangerous man to continue to send me games when he recieves nothing in return? Why is he doing this in the first place? He is intelligent, immensely so, how has he not grown bored of sending little tunes for me to dance to? And why am I still playing along? Why am I so enthralled by this?

I run through my own reactions to Jim's games, catalogue physical and emotional responses that the challenges elicit from me. With a sad realisation I come to a conclusion. This is startling similar to things I felt months ago. The insatiable need for more, the impatience and eagerness. This is addiction all over again.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft knows. He stopped by one afternoon to debrief on a case that had wound up involving the SIS. It's not his area but still, I suppose being related to me made his superiors think it would be good for him to sit me down and swear me to secrecy rather than stick someone else with the job. He doesn't say anything but he doesn't need to. I know that he knows. I can see his distaste written on his face. He's bursting to tell me off, to ask questions, to lecture me. I can tell exactly what he wants to ask. How did I meet him? How did I even know that he existed? How did I get into contact with him? How am I involved? What am I doing? But if Mycroft acknowledges that I've gone against his warnings he will have to show his displeasure openly. He will have to admit that I've annoyed him.

Not only that, but if he brings up the topic of James Moriarty he will be leaving himself open to my own questions and will be forced to answer in an attempt to educate me and persuade me from continuing this interaction. I already know there's something about Jim that Mycroft doesn't want me to know. There's something there he doesn't want to tell me, he wants me to stay away and stay oblivious.

And the strange thing is that I don't particularly want to know. Well, no, that's wrong. I want to know but I don't want Mycroft to be the one to tell me. I enjoy the uncertainty and unpredictability, the mystery of the man who has taken it upon himself to keep me entertained and so if there is something I should know then I would prefer it if I uncovered it myself.

We dance around the subject, not daring to mention the name but knowing that the other can see exactly what is going on.

 

 

\-----------

 

 

Four weeks of nothing. It's been a month since Jim has sent me anything fun and I'm growing impatient. I'm tempted to text him and ask him what the hell is going on but I keep reminding myself that in reality he owes me nothing and so I shouldn't expect anything. It's difficult to remain occupied and patient when the world is this dull without his entertaining games. I've heard nothing from the man, not a whisper. Even Alex has taken to being quite tightlipped about the whole ordeal. She refuses to tell me what Jim is doing, if he is even planning anything for me. Is he still interested in playing or has he grown bored of the situation?

The thought terrifies me, honestly. If Jim ceases this interaction all together what will I have? A pathetic excuse for a distraction in the form of D. I. Lestrade and his little division between the mountains of free time. I just know that if left with nothing to do or think about, nothing thrilling to focus on, I will relapse. It's tempting even now. I remember how blissful it was not to think at all, to not care, to be content with enjoying solid white noise that replaced my racing thoughts. I miss it most when I'm alone in the flat and Mrs. Hudson has retired for the night. The late hours bring an influx of unwanted memories and emotions, leaving me sorely tempted to flee to the nearest doss and throw myself to the ground in surrender.

But wouldn't my dear brother be disappointed if my resolve cracked? It's easy for him, having a mind like this. He has his position in the government, his orders to make and follow, his responsibility and loyalty to the organization, Queen and country. He's all right. He can focus on work, interesting work and not have to deal with the constant desire to do, to think, to distract, to theorise. He has no down time, no lapse in problems and so he doesn't seek distractions. I find myself rather jealous of him sometimes. That being said I'd still rather die than accept a position like his. Crown, Lion and Unicorn, the bloody secret service and MIs hold little fascination for me. And yet I am still jealous that he has direction and I do not.

I'm considering calling it a night and crawling into bed early with a few calmatives to waste time when I feel a vibration from my pocket. I scramble to retrieve it, hoping it's from Jim or Lestrade or anyone who can provide me with something interesting to do. I am pleased to find it is in fact from the man who has successfully captured my interest.

_Helianthus Annuus, vingt-deux. JM._

Aha. Something to decode. My mind immediately breaks it down to try to make sense from the obscure words. Helianthus Annuus, sunflower. Flora. Sun. Plants. Could be anything. Vingt-deux rings no bells other than the obvious numeral and language. Twenty two. French. Obscure, ridiculous. What is it? Sunflowers... Sunflowers... Sunflowers!

I leap across the table to reach for the mail that Mrs. Hudson has left for me. Among the bills and envelopes is a flyer printed on a small sheet of glossy paper. I pull it from the pile and smile.  
Van Gough exhibition, National Gallery, this weekend. And what mage is used for the advertisement? None other than a glaring yellow pout of sunflowers. Helianthus Annuus, sunflowers, Van Gough, Gallery. That's sorted. Now vingt-deux.

Every reference to the number 22 flashes before my eyes,  
XXII Roman, 101102 binary, 2113 ternary, 1124 quaternary, 425 quinary, 1A12 duodecimal, M36 base, aloquot sum of 14, pentagonal, heptagonal, polygonal, seven for the irrational number, titanium's atomic number, letters in the Hebrew alphabet, chapters of John in the Bible. No. He is not a religious man. Back track and skip the spirituality. Try pop culture. Catch 22, yards in a chain, standard port number for the Secure Shell Protocol. Vingt-deux, twenty two. French. French... "Vingt-Deux! V'là les flics!", "Twenty-two! Here come the police!" No that makes no sense, the French is incidental. Double digits. What does twenty-two mean?

My phone vibrates with another text.

_Tick tock, Sherlock. JM_

My eyes flick to the clock above the telly at those words. And yes, I've got it.

Tick tock. Time. It is currently 9:43pm or in military time, 21:43. 22:00 hours. 10pm.

Tick tock.

Ten o'clock at the Van Gough exhibition.


	12. Chapter 12

There's no security, no guards and there is an unlocked door for the staff around the side. It's too convenient to be anything else, I must have been right. I retain a sense of secrecy and quietly push the door open, stepping lightly so that my shoes make as little noise as possible. While there may not be any guards in sight, if I stumble across one it will be difficult to explain my presence and I'm really not in the mood to be arrested tonight. I make my way through the darkened rooms, paintings and sculptures, all kinds of indistinguishable art are set about around me. I know I have found the right section when I peer forward into the room and see a figure standing before a large portrait. I stalk over to him, immediately noticing that he is deadly still and, pleased as I am to see, still shorter than myself. I can't help that I enjoy the height advantage over others.

"You're late." His voice breaks through the silence softly. I stand beside him and look at the painting, hands clasped behind my back as I observe the framed piece.

"You try getting a cab at this time of night who will take you across town in less than fifteen minutes."

"I don't have to. I have drivers for that."

"I'm assuming you paid off the security. Lucky you, with all your filthy money."

He turns to me and I can just make out a smirk on his rounded face in the dim light. He doesn't seem either offended or proud of this statement, simply acknowledging that it is true. I look over at him, hands still behind me as I raise an eyebrow at him.

"So why am I here?" I ask quietly. I'm curious. I was hoping to get here and find something fun, something interesting, something exciting. But instead I am standing here in a dark gallery with a man I barely know. I don't understand what he wants to gain from this odd meeting.

"I've been thinking about what you said. About payment."

"I was under the impression you were doing this for your own enjoyment and wouldn't take money from me in return. You have enough of it clearly, do you really need more?"

He says nothing, his smirk growing as he looks at me with an odd look in his eyes, his head moving in agreement. It's quite unsettling really, having those dark eyes stare at me, glinting mischievously as I try to figure out what is going on. Why am I here? What does Jim want? If he isn't going to continue this without some form of payment, but doesn't need or want money, what the hell am I supposed to offer him? If he's been thinking about this for a month then he clearly has something on his mind but what is it?

"If not money, then what?" I ask suspiciously. I'm a little nervous about what he will ask me for and if I can actually deliver. I may be enjoying this little arrangement we seem to have fallen into but if he asks for something degrading or obscene, I will of course refuse. Without such entertainment I'm sure to relapse but that would still be preferable to carrying out unsavoury actions for the games. I'm hoping he doesn't expect anything sick that will leave me declining the offer. I really do want these distractions to continue.

He steps forward, hands in his pockets as he grins in that disconcerting way. He's entering my personal space and it's awfully off putting. A strange kind of power emanates from him, confidence and intimidation flowing through his very body. I can't help but feel a kind of forced respect for his determination, after all he has already proven that he is powerful and ingeniously smart. He's so close that I can make out his features in the dim room now, his big dark eyes and lips stretched into an excited grin, he is clean shaven again and dressed to the nines. How he can be bothered I have no idea. Most days I can't even be arsed changing from my pajamas unless I have to leave the house.

"I was thinking of something a little more personal than cold, hard cash," he hisses quietly. I can smell his cologne, citrus and sharp, cloying and cutting through the air but not entirely unpleasant. God no, don't let him ask for something personal. I can't do that again, I really can't. The days of giving up my self respect and surrendering just to get a fix are over now. I refuse to fall that far, reach that low again. I would rather find something else to distract me if I would have to stoop to favours of an intimate nature to keep him giving me entertainment. I open my mouth to tell him exactly that but he speaks before the words leave my lips.

"You're interesting, Sherlock. You manage to solve everything I give you. You are quick witted, intelligent, fascinating really. I've never met someone quite as sharp as you and so close to an equal. But my knowledge of you only extends to what you show when you're ruining my crime scenes and putting pieces together. Everything I know is based simply on your intellect. I'd like to change that."

He pauses, looking me up and down in a way that feels like he is trying to see right through me. It's as if he is holding back from peeling my skin from my body and peering inside me. I'm nervous, I'm curious, I'm slightly uncomfortable and I'm excited. All of this is fairly different, new, strange.

"As payment from my time and effort spent entertaining you, I would like to propose a simple exchange. For every hour you spend trying to unravel my little puzzles, I get to ask you one question that you must answer truthfully. If you lie or refuse to answer then I will abstain from giving you anything interesting at all and will leave you to wallow in your own boredom. How does that sound to you?"

It's a very strange request. No one ever wants to know about me unless their name is Mycroft or they need information for medical or police reports. And even then the information needed is run of the mill, general stuff. A need to know basis. 'Do you have a lawyer?' 'Are you aware that you are facing charges?' 'What is your blood status?' 'Have you been tested before?' Etc. it's never exactly... Personal. Nor is it wanted, simply needed for files. No one is every actually interested in anything beyond my immediate intellect. It's certainly not what I expected.

I tilt my chin back, staring down at him with narrowed eyes as I try to detect any malice, any ulterior motives behind such a request. I see nothing but a slight excitement, a touch of nervousness as he shifts his weight from foot to foot impatiently waiting for my answer. I consider it. In theory if I solve every puzzle he sends me within an hours there will be no questions. And if anything gets out of hand I can lie or refuse to answer and it will all cease. I would still be in control of what I divulge and I'll get to keep my distractions. All in all, it's a much better idea than anything I was thinking of, albeit very odd that he wants to ask and receive honest answers, answers that could very well end up rather personal and uncomfortable. While I certainly don't trust the man, I feel it is an acceptable price to pay for such entertainment.

"Deal."


	13. Chapter 13

The first case I solve in three hours. James uses his questions to ask about music. The second takes an hour. He asks about my education. The third takes seven hours. He asks about relationships and jobs. The fourth takes almost a week, tallying in 146 questions and a minor panic attack from me. He tells me he will forfeit that round and trade in the questions for something else.

And so I find myself in that same café down the road where I first met him, nursing a cup of coffee as my hand shakes ever so slightly with nerves. As far as deals go, I feel like this one hasn't turned out so bad. Nothing overly personal has been asked of me, James has not attempted anything unsavoury and I'm not exactly losing out with all these puzzles. But I still feel slightly unsettled. The thought of meeting the man in person again is strangely disconcerting. As much as he denies it, I feel like I am his employee as he is essentially paying me with these crimes.

"Morning," his voice sounds softly as he saunters over to the table with his own beverage and sits, "pleasant day, isn't it?"

I nod politely and raise my cup to my lips, unsure of what he expects to get out of this and not certain what I'm supposed to do or say.

"Your brother has been in contact."

I swallow and raise my eyebrows at him. If he wants to talk about Mycroft then he'll have to come up with something better to pay me off with than petty mysteries for me to solve.

"He mentioned you, in passing..."

"What did the git say?" I say with a small bite of anger. I despise when that man goes about intereferring and dragging me into his scandals.

"Touchy. Guessing you don't share his sentiment then."

"Oh, did he say something brotherly about me? No usual bad mouthing?" I say a little curious now.

"From what I could extract he cares for you very much. He is rather protective and doesn't want to see you go down the wrong path."

I scoff at that, it's ridiculous. "What exactly did he say, James?"

" 'Stay away from Sherlock or you will pay.' " he replies in a put on tone that is equally as haughty as my brother's usually is.  
I chuckle at that. How endearing. Mycroft has warned us both against the other. It serves only to make me curious and want to pursue this even more. Everything is so much more exciting when Mycroft is against it.

"And of course rather than heed the warning you step it up a notch by meeting in person? Delightfully rebellious of you."

He watches me with a smirk and sips at his drink, eyes dark and slightly intimidating despite their large shape and soft colour.  
"What can I say? I like a little danger. What's the point of keeping this up if no one is getting annoyed? Besides, I rather like you. You're fun."

"I don't quite understand what's fun about you committing crimes and me clearing them. I don't see what you're really getting out of this arrangement."

He smirks and I see a glint in his eyes, it puts me on edge.

"I get your conversation and company."

"Why on earth is that some kind of prize? You have Alex, I'm just the same as her. If you want an exaddict friend why not speak to her."

He tuts at me, shaking his head but his grin remains and I'm still confused. This man has money, connections, power... Why bother with my company?

"That's insulting. To you, not myself. Don't get me wrong, Alexandria is a lovely girl and quick witted too but in comparison to you, well... She is absolutely nothing. She is ordinary."

I'm torn between defending the only other person I seem to have a somewhat stable relationship with and being flattered by Jim choosing me over her.

"I'm... Thank you?"

I've never been good at compliments or praise. Unless it's well deserved, in which case I can't help but preen because it's true.  
"But we've got carried away. I'm not here to discuss Alexandria and how you compare to her. I'm here to ask you something."

I sip my drink and nod at him to go ahead. He has racked up the right to over a hundred questions so he can ask away.

"You're obviously very intelligent and you enjoy challenges. You've been lapping up everything I throw out there and figuring it all out. What would you say to getting a little more involved?"

Not exactly what I was expecting given that Mycroft has clearly warned us both against such actions. He is either completely insane in wanting to push Mycroft like this or truly desires my talents.

"Is this offer to get 'more involved' because you'd like to annoy my brother or because you actually wouldn't mind my company?"

He looks away thoughtfully, dramatically pursing his lips before shrugging the shoulders of his well tailored suit.

"Honestly it's a bit of both. So what do you say, would you like to come on over to my side and create some havoc?"

I spend a split second thinking it over, pros and cons and all that. On one hand it would certainly be interesting to work with someone of Jim's intellect and god knows it would be exciting to see things put into motion rather than deconstruct everything. On the other hand my brother would certainly hear about it and move to pull me away. Then again... He does deserve some pay back for all the times he's pushed me around and tried to control my life. This may seem like a form of belated rebellion, a chance to do exactly what he told me not to. The child in me screams to accept and challenge my brother, to show him that he cannot control me forever.

I look at Jim, his face is blank as he waits for my answer.

"I'll think about..." I say slowly with no promises. It is tempting but dangerous. His face lights up with a stifled smile at my response and I can see him bite his tongue. I only said I'd think about it. I didn't agree to anything. I may not agree to it in the end so he really shouldn't be getting his hopes up.

"Excellent. Now, shall we discuss our previous work? What exactly did you find? Explain your process to me..."


	14. Chapter 14

True to my word I do give Jim's offer some thought. I come to no conclusion though. I weigh up the possible outcomes of such an endeavour, both positive and negative. I can't come up with anything that will sway me to move in either direction. I leave the thoughts alone, accepting that I'm sitting on the fence with it and will be until someone pushes me either way. Between thinking about this potential partnership and betrayal, I carry on work for the yard and solving everything that Jim gives me. It becomes fairly routine much to my dismay and I find myself actually procrastinating for the first time in my life. I purposely delay figuring things out in what I assume is an attempt on my behalf to force contact between Jim and I with the prospect of him asking me questions.

It is interesting to educate another on such a rare topic as myself. I enjoy recieving questions, giving me an opportunity to explain myself and my processes and have it all understood with ease. I enjoy the reactions Jim gives to certain information and discover that I'm a little disappointed when he fails to show interest or curiosity to certain answers.

It is nearly a month after our last meeting when I take my procrastination a step further. I intentionally take as long as possible to unravel a problem from him which leads to the tally of questions allowed entering the high double digits. As expected, and honestly hoped for, Jim forfeits once again and offers another meeting. I try to ignore the niggling sensation that I'm being ridiculous, that I am actually prolonging cases in order to recieve Jim's attention in person. Had I chosen to examine these odd behaviours I would most likely find myself disgusted. I choose to ignore the 'why' and instead indulge in the chance to converse with one of the only other people I have met that equals my own intellect.

 

"Am I wrong in assuming, given you've been taking much longer than I see necessay in closing cases, you are actually enjoying my company?"

Today Jim has chosen to abandon the café we frequent in favour of a small but rather well put together restaurant down town. His excuse was that I am far too thin and he dislikes seeing me, as he so elegantly put it, modelling the heroin chic look.

"It's not entirely torturous," I reply as I use my fork to move around the simple pasta I ordered, appearing disinterested while my pulse quickens below the surface. It was fairly obvious, really but that doesn't mean that I want it known.

He smiles at me and puts down his fork to fold his hands on the table. 

"I must admit, I am enjoying the meetings more than the questions. You're fun."

"Thank you," I mutter as I look away, focusing on my plate.

"I've not met someone as entertaining and interesting as you before. And I've certainly never met someone as clever as you. I'd be offended if you despised our interaction."

I frown slightly at the words. I recieve compliments fairly often but it seems different, more honest coming from someone who is on the same level as me. It's different to the idiots thinking I'm intelligent, of course I'm brilliant compared to them. It's more flattering to hear it coming from someone familiar with higher levels of IQs. Hearing it come from Jim makes me feel a little odd. It's not completely unpleasant, I want to smile but that's silly. Why should such words affect me that much when I'm subject to similar ones so often?

"I don't despise it. I... Rather enjoy it." I say simply, glancing up at him across the table, "And you're quite interesting yourself obviously. You're a pleasant change to the general masses all sharing three brain cells collectively."

He tilts his head and smiles, dramatically moving one hand to swat at the air between us.

"Oh, stop. You'll make me blush." he says sarcastically.

"In all seriousness though, Sherlock, have you considered my offer? It would mean more of this, working together. If you're finding you're enjoying my company it would be a fine move to make."

"I have considered it."

"And?" he prompts, leaning forward eagerly.

"I've not decided yet."

He slumps back into his chair with what can only be described as a pout. I'm taken back by the expression. This man is thirty years old and yet he's acting like a child who's been told he can't have dessert. I raise my eyebrow at him and he composes himself again. Picking up his fork and returning his attention to his meal.

"Of course the only fun person I find has reservations about me. Understandable but disappointing. I'd like to collaborate with you." he mutters as he spears his food with a little too much force.

"How could I /not/ have reservations, Jim? I know nothing about you. Mycroft won't tell me anything and you never give up information freely. All I know is bits and pieces from examining you and what Alex has said."

He looks up at me again as a smile slowly spreads across his face.

"If I told you about myself would you be more inclined to join me?"

I shrug, "well it all depends on what information I'm given."

Jim nods in understanding, his smile still curving his lips.

"Ask away and I shall tell you what I can."

 

I leave an hour later with a wealth of new knowledge about Jim Moriarty. He was born on the outskirts of Dublin to a nurse and a bartender with three older sisters. Being the baby of the family he was often overlooked and being the only boy in the household after his father left he was heaped with responsibility. The day he turned eighteen he packed his bags and headed to London to flee his family and the vicious rumours that had recently emerged that he had committed a terrible crime. He wouldn't tell me what the crime was, only offering "I did do it, but I wasn't going to own up. They'd lynch me and all my chances for making something of myself would be crushed."

He was in the criminal business, working his way through all areas and ranks for ten years until he got to where he is today. He didn't give me specifics, only telling me that he is simply for hire. Whether or not he is an assassin, a thief or something entirely different isn't clear. What I do know is that he is powerful. He has connections everywhere and he knows exactly how to make every single one of the lower class convicts he employs dance to whatever tune he plays. He told me of his preferences; music, art etc. Explained his education, his interest in mathematics that has left him with a high degree. If he so wished he could go for his PhD. A doctor in mathematics or applied physics. He has written numerous articles on astrophysics, theoretical mathematics and cosmology but elected to follow a path of crime rather than one of education. I think I respect him more for choosing a more difficult career, if you count running some kind of illegal organisation as a career which I suppose I must when it appears that my own is solving problems for the Yard's beatrunners.

And yet after so much information given to me I still have an odd curiosity. I still want to know more about him. I want to know everything there is. I want to examine him, study him, know him.

That night I recieve a text from him. Two simple words. 

Carl Powers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N.
> 
> I didn't really think about ages while writing this so I apologize in advance for the screwed up in differences. I just wasn't thinking straight when writing. My mistake becomes clear in the next chapter when I add in a touch of childhood.
> 
> While Jim is supposed to be younger than Sherlock in the canon I believe, I've made him older than our detective. Mycroft remains the accepted 7 years older than Sherlock still, making him 4 older than Jim.
> 
> Ages are /supposed/ to be (in BBC as confirmed by Gatiss) as follows:  
> Sherlock 32-36  
> Jim 31-35  
> Mycroft 39-43
> 
> However, I skewed it all. In this fic, the ages are as follows:  
> Sherlock 27  
> Jim 30  
> Mycroft 34
> 
> Apologies. Next time I'll take more care.


	15. Chapter 15

Carl Powers is a name that I'm familiar with and I immediately freeze. A strange sense of panic comes over me.  
That name... Carl Powers. He is a piece of my childhood. Has Jim been digging into my past? Carl Powers was a child I didn't know, had no connection to but was heavily involved with. Or rather, I was involved in his mysterious death. Not to say I was the culprit but rather I was the only person who cared to see the evidence and realise it was not an accident. It was murder.

It was years ago now. A young boy came up to London for a school swimming competition held at a local pool. He had a sort of seizure in the water and died. I tried to tell the authorities, teachers, parents, anyone that would listen, that is wasn't an accident. That Carl's death was premeditated and purposeful. Someone among us was a killer. No one listened and the insults began. Freak, paranoid, loser, nerd, idiot. All wrong but all flung at me. It was torturous, the doubt they had, the words they used to cut me down simply because they didn't see what I did.

I pull my laptop over to me and open up my search engine. I remember every article, every witness but I need to check. I have the strangest feeling that this prompt is not an attempt to show me that Jim has delved into my past but rather an admission to his involvement. I flick through online pages, news, interviews until I find what I'm looking for. A class photo pointing out little Carl amongst his school mates. A certain face to his right, my left, draw my attention. There is a boy, short, thin with unruly dark hair and big eyes looking blankfaced, staring into the camera with his hands behind his back. 

It can't possibly be... I check the names and align them with faces and sure enough, there is it. James Moriarty. He would have been about sixteen at most there. Pieces click into place. Jim was a classmate of Carls. He was driven away from home by nasty rumours of a crime. He is quite clearly not entirely stable with his mentality judging by the work he performs and the puzzles he sends me. I was only just thirteen at the time. Could Jim have been capable of murder by sixteen?

_How did you do it? SH_

_Ahh I don't want to give away all my secrets now. JM_

_So you did do it. SH_

_Of course. The bastard teased me, he laughed at me. So I stopped him. Stopped his heart. JM_

_Impressive. How old were you? Sixteen? SH_

_Old enough to know what I was doing but young enough to be motivated by petty abuse. JM_

_You killed a boy because he made fun of you? SH_

_I killed a boy because he fecking abused me. He beat me, he called me names, he outed me to whole school, he teased me, he made me feel like shite. He deserved it. JM_

_Remind me never to piss you off. SH_

_Just don't screw around with me and you'll be fine. JM_

_I have to say, I'm impressed. Did you know he was what drove me to solving crimes? SH_

_Started young I see. Did you know it was murder back then? JM_

_I did. No one would listen to me. I couldn't find a culprit. SH_

_Of course you couldn't. I was careful. Did you know him? JM_

_No. I just knew foul play when I saw it. Was he really that terrible? SH_

_He was the worst human being I have ever encountered. I did the world a favour. It was either me or him. JM_

_That bad? Your secret is safe with me. SH_

_I know. JM_

From then on, between the cases and puzzles Jim and I share a strange comaderie. Childhoods overlapping and a sense of a common misunderstanding and negative experiences with the world somehow bring us to a level of unconventional friendship. The mysteries from him continue to entertain me and we meet more often, falling into a pattern of meeting for coffee or occasionally lunch to discuss my work, his reactions, more questions. We seem to grow more comfortable, he makes jokes and I let loose my own brand of sarcasm. When Alex asks me how we're getting along I tell her it's fine, saying that he is certainly interesting and she gives me a suspicious smile.

Jim doesn't mention his offer again until much later. We're in the café and he leans over the table, solemn and serious.  
"Have you made a decision?" he asks quietly.

I honestly haven't. I've been enjoying things as they are and have not even thought about the offer in weeks. I shake my head and he sighs looking slightly downcast. Folding his arms and leaning back he glares at me and I roll my eyes.

"It's complicated." I explain.

"Bullshite. Just say yes. Come and work with me. I promise it will be interesting. I'll keep the puzzles if you're worried about losing them." he near whines.

Sometimes he certainly acts younger than he is. His serious act and air of intimidation slips sometimes and is replaced with a vaguely childlike excitement. It most often happens when I prompt him to speak about his articles or theories. He is certainly passionate.

"It's not so much that. I'm sure you can continue to entertain me with work. It's more..." I trail off hesitantly, unsure of whether or not he will find my interest in these meetings welcome or inappropriate.

He seems to perk up at my faded sentence.

"Ohhh!" he whispers with a smile, "you think that being technically employed by me will cause these conversations to stop? Love, no. If anything they will become more frequent. I'd supervise a lot of what you do."

I nod slightly, reassured that my interest is not unwelcome. I've never exactly had a friendship or anything remotely like such so I'm unsure of how things are supposed to progress. I'm uncertain if this curiosity I have is desire to be Jim's friend or if it is simply because I find him so interesting and challenging. I do know that I enjoy holding his attention.

"I'm tempted." I tell him honestly, "but I really do need to think about it some more."

"Certainly," he nods quickly, "I understand. Think about it. Come to a decision. I want you involved but here's a warning, once you're in, you don't get out."


	16. Chapter 16

"I warned you, Sherlock. Don't think I can't see what you're doing."

I grit my teeth and wrap my blanket around my myself as I trudge into the kitchen. My brother is lounging in my arm chair and preparing to give me a lecture. It's far too early for me to deal with his controlling tendencies.

"I know you are in contact with James Moriarty."

I make a noncommital sound as I flick the kettle on.

"You really shouldn't be involved with him. I told you, Sherlock, he is dangerous."

I make a tea for Mycroft and creep over to him, shifting awkwardly and holding my blanket up. He takes it and I immediately flop onto the couch and keel over, drawing my knees up and looking over at him with a straight face.

"It was thoughtless of you to frequent the same locations and think I wouldn't find out. I've seen you two together at the café."

I frown at him with distaste as I answer.

"Hardly thoughtless. You seem to think I'm trying to hide it. I assure you I don't care who sees us in public."

"Sherlock, I urge you, if this is some kind of misguided rebellion simply because I said not-"

"Not everything is about you, Mycroft!" I cut in with a little too much bite, "What would you say if I told you it has nothing to do with you? That I enjoy his company?"

He looks at me with barely concealed disgust and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him.

"Are you saying that you and Moriarty are friends?" he asks coldly.

"I never said that. I'm just saying that I enjoy our conversations."

"And what topics do you converse on?"

"I'm not educating him on SIS structure or MI5 details if that's what you're worried about."

"I asked what you converse on, not what you don't."

I wave my hand at him in dismissal as I answer with nonchalance.

"Petty things. Theories, mathematics, music, Alex, shared interests."

Mycroft stares at me for what seems forever before lowering his tea and covering his mouth with his fingers.

"Please, Sherlock. Stop. Stop doing this. I am asking for the last time. Please stay away from James Moriarty."

I raise my eyebrow at him and sneer, moving to sit up straight and hold his gaze.

"Asking for the last time? I am not your subordinate. You can ask and ask but you can't make me do anything. You can't force me away from the only other challenging person in this city. You have always tried to control me, shape me, force me to follow your orders. Not this time, Mycroft. I am a grown man capable of living my own life. Just because you don't agree with my choices doesn't mean you can demand I change. I think you've meddled quite enough in my affairs. Now get out."

He opens his mouth to speak again but I cut him off.

"Out, Mycroft. Now." I point to the door and he throws me a look I'm unfamiliar with. Disappointment, concern, is that pain I see glimmer behind that cold façade? He stands to leave and I watch him go, riled up and full of nervous energy after my outburst. The second the door closes behind him I collapse back onto the sofa and reach for my phone.

_We need to talk. SH_

 

Standing outside of our regular café with two preordered drinks for myself and Jim, I wait impatiently. I see him approach me and step forward, handing him his take-away cup.

"Regular, obscene amount of sugar. Enjoy." I say as I look him up and down. He is always immaculately dressed even when we meet on short notice. He must own more brand name suits than anyone else I know. I should be ashamed that he only ever sees me in basic button down shirts but I really don't care.

"Thank you. Now what's this about?" he asks as he sips at his drink, not hesitant at all about whether or not I've got his order right. I can't help but feel a little proud that he doesn't doubt my attention and gesture at all. It seems after all of this interaction he has developed a small amount of trust. It's rather nice.

I begin to walk, not really heading anywhere just agitated and needing to move and he falls into stride beside me, his back straight and chin held high.

"Mycroft." I say simply.

I see Jim nod from the corner of my eye as we stroll down the sidewalk.

"What has he done this time?"

"He warned me again. I may have overreacted."

Jim tuts at me and stops, pulling at my elbow to force me to face him like a parent would do to a child in a sulk.

"What happened?" he asks looking straight into my eyes. I see a glimmer of concern and Mycroft's assumption flickers in my mind. Are we friends? I never much thought about it.

"Jim..." I start, pausing to ready myself for disappointment, "Are we friends?"

His eyebrows furrow as he looks at me, tilting his head slightly but keeping eye contact.

"I assumed we were. Unconventional, but yes, friends."

I sigh in relief and let my lips curl into a miniscule grin. I've never really had a friend. I've never thought I'd find someone who could keep up with and entertain me. I've always been alone, never social unless forced into the situation and certainly never wanting to form a friendship. It's surprising that I'm actually glad to hear those words.

"Mycroft near begged me to cut ties with you. He seems adamant in making sure I cease contact with you."

"And yet again, rather than heed that warning, we're meeting again. If I didn't know any better I'd say you were rather taken with me. I'm flattered, Sherlock. I really am."

"Now is not the time for joking, Jim."

"Who said I was joking?"

I stare at him for long seconds until he breaks into a grin.

"Sorry, sorry. Now why are you telling me this? Are you going to listen to him?"

"No. Of course not. I'm an adult. I can associate with whoever I want."

"And you want to associate with me."

"Yes. I've been thinking-"

"You always are."

"-and if I take you up on your offer, what will I gain?"

Jim smiles widely and begins to walk again, with an odd bounce in his step suggesting excitement he begins to speak.

"You would of course recieve a steady income. I tend to pay monthly so you'd have to watch your funds. I wouldn't put you in the field, exposure of your name tied with mine would cause far too much drama. You would work when I tell you to work and on whatever I tell you to. It would all be behind the scenes, anonymous, untraceable so you won't smear your name. I'm thinking theoretical work for you. Working out problems that arise with clients and locations. Basically a second opinion and problem solver to make my job easier. I would of course oversee everything you do. No drugs, no social niceties, no telling anyone what we do, no traces and no secrets hidden from me. It will be low key, but important. Dangerous but gosh, wouldn't it be fun?"

I hum in thought and slow my steps.

"And if I said yes, how would it affect this... Friendship?" I ask, sorely tempted to agree in order to simply be entertained and see Jim more often but holding back because if it is to move into a strictly business dynamic, I would prefer to keep this friendship and stay poor with long periods of boredom.

He stops again and smirks at me. I feel like I could be missing something here. He is thinking of something I am not.

"If you said yes, you would be seeing a lot more of me. Just because I start paying you doesn't mean I'm going to treat you any differently."

I glance down at him and my mind is made up. Challenging my brother, a steady income, something fun to occupy my time and a strange kind of friendship. Could there be anything better?

"All right. I'll do it."


	17. Chapter 17

Jim reacts to my acceptance in what seems an absurd fashion. His eyes light up like Christmas has come early and a smile spreads across his parted lips to reveal his teeth. He shifts his weight onto his toes and seems to bounce in place as he lifts himself up a few inches into my direct eye line.

"You mean it?" he asks in a quiet voice, words near trembling from excitement.

I don't step back from him although the urge does take me for a second, instead I find myself matching his grin and replying.

"Of course. Why not? It benefits us both."

He all but squeals in delight and I am forcibly reminded of a small child again rather than the grown man that he is. It's odd to see such a usually composed man with his dapper attire and advanced mathematical theories act this way. Odd, but strangely pleasant knowing that my co-operation and company is wanted that badly.

"Oh, this is going to be so much fun!" he exclaims as we continue to walk again, my mood considerably lighter than when I first left the house. Jim begins outlining what I'll be doing and where and when in a hushed but animated voice. I leave him a good fifteen minutes later with my spirits lifted and an eagerness I haven't felt in a very long time. Returning to my flat I spend the rest of my afternoon occupying myself by going over the mediocre cases that Lestrade has given me which does nothing to diminish my pleasant mood brought on by moving forward on my own and making my own independent decisions.

 

I'm awoken the next day by a text message, my phone vibrating on the bedside table loudly. It's late afternoon and I've slept in because I was up until dawn going over cold case files and composing, too excited at the prospect of working with Jim to even try to sleep.

_Get dressed. There's a car waiting outside for you. JM_

Not exactly the most polite greeting but I do as he says, slipping into the tiny bathroom down from my bedroom to take a quick shower. I'm still pulling on my coat as I wander down the stairs when I recieve another text.

_I don't like to be kept waiting. Hurry up. JM_

I roll my eyes thankful that the man can't see me and pull open the front door. There is indeed a rather nondescript black car pulled up at the curb. I hesitantly open the back door and find Jim seated opposite, inspecting his fingernails in boredom. He is elegantly dressed in a charcoal suit and green tie, his hair as immaculate as ever. I find myself vaguely wondering if he ever dresses down at all. Surely he must, one can't sleep in three piece suits. I slip into the car beside him and haphazardly run my fingers through my still damp hair in an attempt to make myself presentable.

"What's going on?" I mumble as my fingers get caught in a curl and I tug at the strands to untangle them. God only knows how I must look, an underweight figure with a mass of errant curls and an unbuttoned shirt next to the ever lavish Jim Moriarty with his tailored suits and shining Oxfords.

"First day on the job. I've got something I want you to take a look at."

I give up on attempting to fix my appearance and look over at him.

"Right. Where are we going?" He can't possibly work out of an office with what he does but I doubt very much that he's escorting me to his own home.

"Little place I keep near Vauxhall for research."

I ask a question that I've been curious about for some time now.

"Exactly how much money do you have?"

He smiles at me as he answers and if I didn't know any better I would swear mt heart races increases just a bit.

"Enough to pay off the nation's debt and still live comfortably. Why?"

"Curious."

The car slows and stops and Jim moves to get out, holding the door for me and gesturing to a block of flats that look like the kind of thing that a celebrity would buy. He is clearly rather ostentatious and ridiculous with his money but I can't find the energy to even try to be jealous or put off. It does nothing to increase nor hinder my respect for him. It is inconsequential really. He saunters down the hall and we find ourselves in a bright elevator heading up to the twelfth floor where I follow him to the end of the hall. He produces no key, instead simply knocking on the door as if he is merely visiting a friend's home. Within seconds a man with blond hair answers the door.  
"Jim! You've just missed Bochelli!" he exclaims as he pulls Jim into a one armed hug.  
"Oh, did he come around?"  
"He did indeed." the man replies as he steps back, his eyes flicking over to me, "who's your friend?" he voices as he looks me up and down, ushering us inside. Once the door is closed Jim begins with introductions.

"Sherlock, this is Sebastian Moran. Seb, this is Sherlock Holmes."

The blond man, Sebastian, raises an eyebrow at me.

" _The_ Sherlock Holmes? The Queen's brother?" he remarks as he extends his hand to me. There are scars on his skin, in particular a nasty ring of raised skin around his wrist and the unmistakable graze from firearm exposure on the inside of his middle finger.

"Is there any other?" I say gripping his calloused hand firmly. My eyes narrow and flick over to Jim who is watching me intently.

"Well?" he asks, hands slipping into his pocket.

"Well what?"

"Go ahead. Voice your observations."

Ahh, he always knows when I'm deducing and never fails to ask me to run a commentary so he can judge me. I always do as he asks, part of me hoping to impress him with these little performances. I enjoy the way his eyes light up when he finds my theories interesting. I take a breath and scan Sebastian looking for every telltale I can. When I speak I address Jim rather than the man before me, this is after all, for no one's benefit and simply to make Jim happy.

"Hair cut and stance suggest a military lifestyle, practical and strong. Probably the army judging by the scars. Discharged. I'm guessing dishonourably seeing as he's here working with you. Breathing pattern is slightly shallow considering the size of his chest in proportion to the rest of his body so I'm assuming asthma or scarring on the lungs from pleurisy most likely caused by the cold conditions in the army because he doesn't have nicotine stains. He's tanned from the exposure during his time in the army but it's fading. He's been doing a lot of inside work. The burn on his finger between his index and middle suggests he handles firearms so I'm assuming he's a hitman judging by his involvement in your business. Age... I'd guess at thirty five but it could be less, not by much though. He is relaxed here but I know this isn't his home so I'm guessing it is your presence rather than the location that puts him at ease. I'm tempted to say friend rather than simple employee but do you really take on that many friends? Perhaps... Oh! Lovers? No. Not lovers. Definitely not. His nails are rather long, slightly ragged so it seems he is abstinent. Maybe not by choice but he isn't partaking in any carnal activity with anyone at the moment. Perhaps work is too busy for his to seek physical comfort in others. He doesn't seem to mind though because apparently he's fine with just knocking one out himself. In fact, he did it earlier today, in that bathroom over there."

Jim grins widely and steps over to place a hand on Sebastian's back, speaking quietly to him but keeping his eyes on me.

"Did he get it right, Seb? Army? Hitman? Asthma? Age? Involvement?" he moves to stand on his toes, lips close to Sebastian's ear but dark eyes staring directly at me. I feel a strange feeling rise up and get the urge to stand between them, to stop the physical contact. It's irrational and completely inappropriate. "Did he get the last bit right? Have you been getting up to nasty things while on my time?"

Sebastian steps away from him and pushes at Jim with an open palm, much like the way a good friend would joke around.

"God Jim, you know he's right. And don't do that, bloody ponce. I don't want to discuss that kind of shit with you."

Jim steps away and nods at me, gesturing for me to follow as he wanders away to another room of the flat. He shows me his computers, desktops and laptops designed for a great deal of things, posterboards with papers and contacts and business cards linked and scribbled on, folders sit on the dining table, books upon books and three or four phones, the place is full of things stuffed with information and theories. One thing that really grabs my attention is the first bedroom which has been transformed into a kind of makeshift office with a cluttered desk and text books. There is a large window that barely lets in any sunlight for it's covered in equations and numbers, drawn right onto the glass with a black marker. 

I'm astonished and delighted to be in a building that contains so much information. Jim stands behind me and let's me examine things, not even bothering to speak or hold me back as I study everything that catches my eye and mutter under my breath. I feel like a child in a toy shop. There's so much here and most of it is catalogued amazingly well and although I can see that a lot of it would be incredibly incriminating if ever discovered by a authoritative figure but it's just so fascinating. Snapping myself out of my rigorous examination of everything I can see, I turn to Jim with a smile.

"So what do I start with?"


	18. Chapter 18

I find myself comfortably sprawled on the floor of the living room with maps and plans around me. Paper everywhere, the background noise of the television and the chatter of the other occupants are vague, far away as my brain works on the problems before me. A shadow moves over me and I snap up to look, seeing Jim standing behind me with a faint grin on his face.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asks as he bends down to look over my shoulder at the papers in front of me.

"It's different."

I feel him bend his knees, squatting behind me with his hand coming to rest on my shoulder to balance himself.

"I asked if you were enjoying yourself."

"It's... Yes. I am, if I'm being honest."

He hums happily and points to a list I've made.

"What's that? Is that your handwriting? It's atrocious." he asks as he squints at the papers.

It's a list I've made of all the problems he could encounter and how to work around them. He's got me solving the problem of how to get around a rather technologically advanced security system and guard staff at a manor up north. He isn't telling me exactly why but I'm assuming it's a burglary. If Mycroft knew what I was up to he'd be foaming at the mouth and rather than deter me, that thought seems to spur me on. 

I roll my eyes at his comment about my writing and begin to explain my results and ideas.

"You've got security cameras on this door, in those rooms there and here. There's an infrared installation here and here. The cameras are easy to get around but the infrared... The only thing to do is either wait for a rather hot day or turn the heating up so your body temperature can't be distinguished from the surrounding heat. The locks, for all the wealth and technology are simple. If you want information on safes and vaults I'll need serial numbers first."

He nods and smiles, his fingers tightening on my shoulder. He lowers his voice, mouth beside my ear as he looks down over my shoulder.

"The heating idea is good. The safe is not necessary. This isn't a robbery."

His breath ruffles my curls and I suppress a shiver. It's been a long time since anyone was this close to me physically. I've avoided it for so long, trying to keep bad memories away. Flashes of times where I was so desperate for a hit that I would do anything, or rather anyone, tend to leave me feeling ill whenever someone attempts physical contact with me. There is no memory at this touch though, just the slight contact, casual and light. His hands are cold even through my shirt and despite the temperature of the flat but still there are no negative feelings. It's actually a little comforting.

"What is it then?" I breathe trying to focus on something other than the way Jim is mere inches from my face.

He leans away, his hand retracting as he stands up, the strange contact disappearing.

"Sebastian, make some tea. We're going to tell Sherlock here a story."

 

The story turns out to be less of a tale and more of a presentation of Sebastian's history and how it relates to the job at hand. A kind of informative account of his skills and life while bringing me up to speed on what exactly is happening with this manor they are planning to break in to.

I was right. Sebastian was indeed in the army, a well rounded military man but was made to 'disappear' when treason was committed and he sought protection from a rogue government. His official records say he is deceased, MIA but the MI5 know the truth. They had been keeping tabs on him until Jim came along and helped hide the man. Now he is anonymous, a secret and harbors a strong hatred and mistrust for anything involving the British Government. He is indeed a hitman, taking out political parties, high status players, royalty and the like for Jim. He is unfathomably loyal to the criminal mastermind and owes him not only his freedom but his life. He swears his job, essentially putting a bullet in the heads of targets, is an artform and not nearly as barbaric or violent as people think it is. He is certainly a poetic man and given the chance will speak volumes on the perfect angles, pressure and speed of a shot, on ammunition and models, sounds and feelings, trajectory, everything. He is ridiculously passionate.

The current job will not be undertaken by Sebastian himself. The manor, not a burglary but a murder as I've been informed, is to be elegant. As much as Sebastian argues that there is nothing more elegant than a fatal but minuscule entrance wound in the back of a neck, Jim will have nothing of it. 

The client asking for this job to carried out is a young man that stands to inherit a small fortune from an aunt. The intended victim is the aforementioned aunt who is getting on in years and is extraordinarily paranoid. A bullet would scream murder for monetary gain so Jim is standing by his decision to stay subtle no matter how much his employee whines.

I'm not sure how I feel about being involved in what is fundamentally the worst of crimes but I convince myself that as I'm not the one who ends up with blood on their hands, I'm not really to be held responsible. I simply figured out how to enter the household undetected, not how to bump off the woman.

I listen as Jim and Sebastian argue about who will be the one to carry out the act and sip my tea calmly. It's strange how much an immoral and intricate plan has the two of them conversing as though they are life long friends discussing the pros and cons of something as simplistic as sporting teams or preference of lager. The camaraderie is interesting to watch and I find myself observing the exchange with interest, not in the topic itself but in the easy way they communicate. I've never had something like that, someone that understands the way my mind works and the train of thought I carry, the hand gestures and meaning. I'm oddly envious of their relationship and wish I had something similar.

I watch, a little unsettled by the idea that I am actually jealous of a friendship, as Sebastian raises his hands in defeat and Jim smirks.

"Fine, have it your way but I think Al will be better."

"Just because you fancy her doesn't mean she's right for the job. I'm using Charlie and that's it."

The name stirs a thought I can't help but voice.

"Al?" I ask with a raised eyebrow, "surely not Alex?"

Jim looks over at me with a look of surprise as though he had forgotten I was present.

"Yes, actually. Alexandria."

"She... does hits?" I ask, a little confused at all this new knowledge coming to light and redefining my opinions.

"Only recently. She used to do thefts but she's branched out. She does wonders with poisons."

Of course, she does. Alex knew exactly how chemicals worked and could look at other patients in the centre and tell me what they were addicted to. That was a while ago now, I didn't see it then. I didn't know. I had no idea that she was involved in such a business but now that I look back I see the hints and evidence and realise I should have known.

I'm not sure if I'm disappointed that she's turned out to be a blatant criminal or if I'm impressed that she hid it so well. I simply nod in acceptance realising that whatever it is that I've become a part of is far more powerful and connected than I originally thought. The new knowledge that this job carries something a little more than just risk for my reputation is exciting. I'm usually on the other side of crime, cleaning up the messes rather than helping to create them. This is very different but awfully exciting. Knowing that I am currently in a room with an assassin and a mastermind, that Alex is a straight up criminal... I know it should put me on edge but I'm actually enjoying the danger and unusual situation.

I've been silent for too long it seems as I process all this. Jim frowns at me, tilting his head and leaning towards me.

"Don't tell me that you're getting cold feet now." he says in a disappointed voice.

"No no," I shake my head furiously to negate his words, "nothing like that. I'm liking this. It's so very different. I really should have said yes sooner."

Jim's frown morphs into a proud smile and his eyes light up with acceptance. The expression makes something flicker inside me, something warm and light and I mimic the expression myself, returning his smile. There is something about this man that makes me happy. It's not just the idea of danger, the challenge and the risk that he represents. There is something else that makes me want to continue this, to do whatever he asks and elicit that smile from him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being MIA lately. Let's get this going again, shall we?

Today has started off horribly and doesn't seem to be getting any better. I'm just too tired to deal with any of it. I'm in a valley, a dip, a hole. I rolled into a pit of lethargy and misanthropy sometime during the night. It's not a steep descent but it's just too much for me to climb out of. It happens, more often than I'd care to admit. My life is just a circle of mania followed by bouts of intense contempt. This is why I used the drugs, to balance it all out, to bring the mania down and the uncaring up.

I was woken this morning by a number of things that occurred all at once. I recieved a text message, there was a knocking at my door and my stomach heaved so badly that I almost retched.

The text message was from Alex, it was an invitation for lunch tomorrow. The knocking was my dear brother. The heaving was a wave of nausea that was no doubt an indication that my body just isn't prepared for these mental slumps without the help of a certain blissful chemical that comes via the veins in my elbow.

I didn't reply to Alex. I didn't answer the door. I just laid there urging my stomach to stop churning and staring blankly at the ceiling. I fell into the horrible misanthropic thought of just how pointless this all was and didn't hear the door open. I did however hear the footsteps coming towards my bedroom and managed to roll over to face the closed door. I heard Mycroft call out and was a little surprised to hear a touch of concern in his voice. I let a smirk cross my face and waited for him to come in. The door opened and he stood for a split second without his usual cold mask, before he pursed his lips in annoyance at my expression.

Ahh. He thought I'd fallen off. He thought I'd caved and started using again. The idiot. I'm not going to break that easily, not when things are going fairly well despite my listless mood.

"Can I help you?" I say, the smirk sliding off my face as he steps towards my bed.

"Just checking in." he replies as he squints at me, no doubt double checking that I am in fact sober.

"Well as you can see, I am still alive and still clean. I have a lot of laying around to do so if you'd be so kind as to leave..."

He makes a face of disgust at me and I have to swallow heavily to stop myself from leaning over and being sick up all over his shoes.

"Have you used?" he asks, his voice cold enough to freeze the air around him. I scoff, of course not.

"You don't look well." he tells me. Is that a hint of real concern in his voice? No, never!

"Oh dear, and I was so hoping to win the Miss London beauty pagent. However will I go on if I'm not spick and span stunning?" I drawl sarcastically as I roll over to face the wall, an invitation for him to leave.

There are a few moments of silence where, if I hadn't been myself and I hadn't known my brother, it would seem as though he had left the room. But I know better. I know the exact look he is directing at my exposed back and I smile coldly to myself. So predictable, so known, so ordinary.

"Sherlock, is this another low?" I ignore him, eyes closed as I swallow to stop myself from being sick.

"I wish you'd see a doctor. You know how mummy worries about your health. You know what happened to daddy."

I continue to ignore him. I know he's trying to guilt me but it never works. Yes, I know full well that our dear father offed himself during one of his own lows. Yes, I know full well that our mother worries I will do the same. But I also know that I am stronger than father ever was. He didn't have the same puzzles and distractions I did, he didn't have a life or ambitions. 

"Sherlock... I really must insist you see a doctor. You know it's a problem. You have-"

I turn over to face him with a snarl on my lips.

"Don't you dare say it." I snap at him. He closes his mouth and frowns at me. I know exactly what he was going to say and I hate it. He's wrong. There is nothing wrong with me and there is absolutely nothing wrong with my mind. I refuse to sit infront of some so called professional and have them throw out diagnosis after diagnosis to make themselves feel better. I function just fine. My mind is different, yes but that doesn't mean it's wrong. In comparison to theirs mine is completely superior in every aspect and just because they think the chemicals running through my brain tissue are wrong doesn't mean I'm bloody mental and can be labelled with goddamn psychology terms like psychopathic or borderline personality or manic depression sufferer. My mind is perfectly fine and I shan't be bullied or guilted by Mycroft into dulling it with any medication.

I open my mouth to tell him exactly this but I am cut off as my phone alerts me to a new text message. I keep my eyes locked on my brother's, glaring as I reach for my phone and unlock it only breaking the gaze to look down at the message.

_Sending a car for you. Got something I want you to take a look at. JM_

I make sure to keep my face blank so that Mycroft doesn't think anything of it, doesn't question it.

"Out." I demand as I press the button to reply. "I have people I need to see."

He smirks lightly at me, I can tell. Smug bastard.

"Is that the lovely young lady from the clinic? What was her name..."

He knows perfectly well what her name is and he knows damn well that I'm still in touch with her. He's being purposely obtuse.

"Alex, you prat."

"Touchy. Are you fond of her?"

"Mycroft. Get out." I mutter again as I type out a reply.

_Hold off. My brother is here. SH_

I send it off and roll out of bed, throwing off the covers and swinging my bare legs over the side.

"I'm asking you once more, leave now or deal with me showering and going out myself."

He smirks at me, "date, Sherlock?"

I humour him with my own slanted smile.

"Something like that."

He seems satisfied with that, the idiot, and moves to leave. A knowing smile is on his face and it takes all my self control not to slap it off or tell him he is wrong. Let him think what he wants.

I recieve a text and lift it to read the screen.

_I've circled the block twice already. Hurry up, angel. JM_

I raise an eyebrow at the nickname but choose to ignore it, letting Mycroft see himself out as I head to the shower. My low is still present and it takes an unusual amount of effort to drag myself into the bathroom. It's tedious, waiting for the water to heat up, washing, drying, trudging back to my room for clothes... I just want to lay down and... And what? Just do nothing. Just cease to exist. Just not be here. It's too dull, it's too boring, it's too much effort.

I have two messages waiting for me.

_I'm waiting. I can't keep driving around forever. Five minutes and I'm coming up. JM_

_Right. I'm done with this. I'm coming in. JM_

I groan at that. God, I don't want him in here. Mycroft probably has survellience on my flat. For all I know there could be cameras and bugs and-

And there he is. A knock at the door. I tug on my pants and trousers, grabbing a creased shirt and pulling it on as I wander to the front door. I'm just fumbling with my buttons as I open it and am greeted by Jim, immaculately dressed as ever, leaning against the frame with a bored look on his face. His eyes drop down and run over me as I button my shirt. I roll my own at him.

"Don't say anything, I already know I look-"

"Gorgeous..."

I blink at him, a raised eyebrow and a frown on my face. Is he taking the piss? I'd assume so but he seems to realise what he just said and averts his eyes.

"Apologies. Didn't mean... Well. Yes, okay I did mean it. I'm not sorry for that." he regains his composure and wanders in past me, eyes scanning the flat as he comes to stand behind me.

"Hope it doesn't make you uncomfortable. I forget you London boys don't like compliments from us. You take it terribly and assume the worst."

"Excuse me? The worst?"

He turns to look at me with his hands in his pockets.

"You know, city boys say they don't swing that way but throw out one compliment and they automatically assume you're asking to shag them. Arrogant, really."

I realise what he's getting at and make a sound of understanding.

"Ohhhh. You mean... No. No. It doesn't make me uncomfortable, that would be ridiculous considering my tendency. Not exactly one of your usual 'London boys.'" I reply as I smooth down my shirt, "now, can we get this over with? What is it you want to show me?"

He tilts his head and stares at me with an odd look in his eyes.

"Any good with seperating and identifying components in samples of products?"

I nod, pointing to my well worn microscope on the dining table. I do love doing exactly that. Studying, breaking down chemicals and what not.

"Excellent. I've got something I want you to identify and replicate for me."


	20. Chapter 20

"And done!" I exclaim leaning away from the microscope and straightening my back. Three hours. It took three hours to isolate and determine every component in this sample Jim gave me. He's been alternating between sitting opposite of me working on his laptop and standing behind me silently, reading my notes. The liquid he's had me studying is quite clearly a poison, made of so many elements and cancelling chemicals that it's just astonishing.

He leans over my shoulder, one hand on my back as he reaches for the paper I've been jotting down notes on.

"You got them all?" he asks as he scans the page.

"Of course I did." I reply a roll of my eyes. His hand is still settled on my back and I can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of my shirt. It's a strange sensation, although rather pleasant I must admit. It's comforting and honestly, my back is aching from being hunched over.

He presses his hand harder against my back and I freeze. Is it a conscious motion or is he just so used to working closely with Sebastian Moran that personal space and casual touches are natural to him when working? I clear my throat but the hand doesn't move at all, he's immersed in the paper, eyes skimming over my messy handwriting.

"What's this?" he asks after a moment, holding the sheet infront of my face and moving his hand from my back to point at a scrawled line in the margin.

"Just a note on the contradictions of some of the make up. A lot of it is just one thing cancelling out another and diluting the solution to cause confusion."

He makes a noise of understanding and folds the paper, slipping it into his pocket before turning to me with a grin.

"You did very well." he compliments.

"It's what I do." I reply rubbing a hand over my eyes.

"If I manage to get all of these chemicals could you recreate this sample on a larger scale?"

"I don't see the point. With most of the toxins being negated by other compounds in this, the majority of the make up is unnecessary. It's just a mess. You've got hydrofluoric acid but there's calcium gluconate as well which negates the effects, there's barbital and flumazenil traces but they cancel each other out too. It's ridiculous."

"But it makes it harder to identify the active toxins, yes?"

I move my hand and look up to see him smirking down at me. A thought crosses my mind. 

"Where did you get this?" I ask narrowing my eyes. I know he's a criminal and all but some of these chemicals are very difficult to come by.

He smiles at me, "it doesn't matter. Do you think you can recreate it, angel?"

That nickname again. Without thinking I nod, my eyes not leaving his until I break contact as a question comes to mind.  
"Are you going to poison someone with this?"

He moves around the back of my chair slowly and runs his hand across my shoulders, coming to stand on my other side.  
"Not necessarily. No one need die. Although there will be some injuries."

I turn to face him again and raise an eyebrow, pushing him to elaborate. His hand has not left my shoulder and his thumb strokes the fabric of my shirt. I want to pull my arm away, to move and force him to refrain from touching me but I can't find the motivation. It's been so long since anyone laid a hand on me. It seems I've missed having physical contact, I've been starved of it for so long. The only time I allowed it was when I was as lit as a fire and out of my mind.

"I have a client who wants a little revenge on her cheating ex-husband. He runs a very successful company, food industry. Just a little business called A. G. Barr." He says with a grin, "she's willing to pay up if I can shatter his empire, destroy his little business and leave him with nothing. I figure if something like this," he gestures to the microscope, "is diluted it won't be fatal to the majority of the public but will certainly make them ill. I'll have it slipped into the processing of one of their products and wait for someone to trace it back to the factory. Plant some files saying he approved of new changes to the recipe, he'll be investigated and shamed and our lovely client can watch as he falls from grace."

Nice idea, really, but even when diluted this poison could potentially be fatal. I begin to explain this to Jim.

"It could still kill people, the elderly and infants will be more susceptible to the toxicity. It could react with things in the original formula and cause mass fatalities."

He simply shrugs one shoulder as if he doesn't really care about the number of deaths it could cause. All because a woman is angry at her ex-husband? Would Jim really put this into motion and risk hundreds of lives being lost just for a sum of money and a vengeful woman's thanks? It seems so. It makes me question my involvement. Being a part of having one woman I never knew existed bumped off for monetary gain is one thing but to have an active helping in manufacturing an agent that could quite possibly kill, or at least seriously contaminate and render hundreds of people incredibly sick is a whole other thing. I've never thought I had much of a conscience but this is potential murder or long term sickness on a grand scale. It makes me feel a little sick. 

Before I can voice this though, Jim's hand has slipped to my collar and my body has tensed. I've not had skin on skin contact for a very long time. The warmth of his fingers as they dance above my collar force me to close my eyes and almost sigh in contentedness.

"If it makes you feel any better you can tweak the solution to lower the risk of death. Just tell me you'll give it a go, Sherlock."

I can feel him move, he's leaning down as if to peer over my shoulder again. I can feel him inches from me as he whispers.

"It would make me incredibly happy, angel. Will you do it?"

Before I realise what I'm doing I hear my own voice answer him in an equally soft tone, sounding as though it's not coming from me at all despite the fact that I know my lips are moving.

"Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, A. G. Barr is a real company. Despite the fact that they make Tizer which I love, they also make D&B which I despise. It tastes like poison hence Jim's idea of adding toxins to the formula. No one will notice because it already tastes like death (to me).
> 
> I am in no way affiliated with the company and mean no disrespect or anything of that nature, I just really don't like dandelion and burdock.


	21. Chapter 21

Jim sends me home with a smile, a promise to call and a cheque for a ridiculous amount of money. I find it rather ostentatious and that's quite an opinion coming from someone who grew up in a country manor playing lacrosse and attending the coming out parties of women in every spring. What his other less fortunate employees must think of these cheques I have no idea. I push the immediate calculation that springs to my mind, automatically measuring the amount scrawled in how many hits I could get out if it. I'm not going to do that again. I instead decide not to bother cashing it, it can stay tucked away for an emergency. After all, the trust is still paying the way with excess. There's no point in adding these funds to the money I already have if it's not needed.

I tuck the slip of paper into the inside pocket of my coat for now and hail a cab. For whatever reason, today Jim did not bother calling a driver for me. I suppose the cash he gave me is a means for me to take care of my own travel now. It's understandable really. He's clearly a busy man especially with this apparent new task at hand. I still have no idea how he is going to get his hands on some of the compounds I outlined earlier but I suppose I have to trust him and his contacts.

Half an hour later I find myself standing in the foyer about to head up the stairs to my flat, two bags from Tesco in my hand and my landlady standing in front of me. A quick scan of her watery, red rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks and overnight suitcase tells me all I need to know but I'm in a charitable mood, enough so to extend a sociable ear and ask the obvious.

"Mrs. Hudson, what's happened?"

She produces a handkerchief which she holds to her face as she shakes her head. Her soft voice is unsteady and partially muffled by the fabric but still audible in the quiet entrance.

"Oh, love, I've got to go away for a few days."

"Who died?" I ask then mentally berate myself. Social niceties and acceptable behaviour does not come naturally to me but I can still often figure out what is and isn't appropriate in general situations. My words cause a dry sob to shift her shoulders before she inhales deeply to reply.

"A friend, up north. Poor dear passed away in her sleep. She's only got her nephew so I'm heading up to help with the funeral arrangements. The poor boy, he was rather close to her."

I furrow my brow at her words. Awfully familiar. Surely this isn't the same woman and client that Jim and Sebastian were discussing earlier this week? If so, I have indirectly caused the death of Mrs. Hudson's friend. With the simple theory to avoid infra-red detection, I have prompted the murder of a woman. A woman who clearly meant a lot to my land lady. I feel a little sick at the thought that I had a hand in causing Mrs. Hudson's distress.

My worry must be displayed on my face quite obviously because I feel a warm hand brush against mine.

"You'll be okay on your own for a few days. There's milk and bread in your flat and you can order in, yes?" She says with a sad smile.

Ahh, Mrs. Hudson. Forever taking care of me even when I don't need it. Taking care of poor, battered and bruised Sherlock. Taking care of the man who regularly forgets to eat and would forfeit breathing to replace it with knowledge if possible. She thinks the worry on my face is due to being left alone, rather than the twinge of guilt at having been involved in what could quite possibly be the murder of her friend. I forced a smile and nod at her pleasantly.

"I'm sure I'll manage."

I step around her and make my up the stairs, pausing only to call to her retreating figure.

"My condolences, Mrs. Hudson."

Once inside the flat I immediately dive into one of the bags I've brought up and retrieve my cigarettes. I'm still feeling a bit sick knowing that it was my idea that led to the death of an apparent innocent. It's not necessarily the murder that leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth, but rather the effect it has had on my land lady. She has always taken good care of me even when I've protested. She's cleaned my flat, stocked the fridge, bundled me up and sent me off to the hospital and somehow managed to keep Mycroft away when I'm in a bad state.

She is how I imagine mothers are. Of course I do have my own mother but growing up she was preoccupied with my father and his condition. By the time he was gone Mycroft was off at university and my own childhood was nearly over. I was too old to be coddled and after years of independence I didn't exactly want it. I do love my mother but she had always been less of a parent and more of simple means to my birth. But dear Mrs. Hudson. She is sweet.

I flick on the kettle and notice the sink. There are a dozen clean mugs drying on the counter but the sink is still full, a few utensils are soaking in the cold water. She must have been doing my dishes when she got the news. I empty the sink and use one of the clean mugs to prepare a tea.

I wander over to my lounge, sipping at the hot liquid and holding my new pack of cigarettes. She hates when I smoke in the flat but knows that it's better than the previous addiction and so she lets it slide. I sit and light up a cigarette, letting myself fall into my own mind. Thinking, analysing my own ideas, studying the strange feelings I have about this whole scenario of murder and employers, poison and thefts. This is certainly not what I wanted my life to be like.

It's only when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket that I snap back to reality. I slowly reach for it, still preoccupied with my own thoughts. My tea has gone cold and my cigarette has been burnt to the filter. I blink and focus on the device in my hand. A text from Lestrade.

_St. Trinity Church. Come take a look. GL_

A distraction. Excellent.


	22. Should I continue?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wondering if anyone is interested in this being finished?

I've got it all sketched out and a fair amount of it written up. Should i post it up here?


End file.
